Micheal Reid NB, Newport Beach, Sydney/Eora
February 2022
The words that give sense to the time stand in the pages of books not mine. I give thanks to minds that function high. I mean. Warmth. The words passed, exchanged, gifted, felt and held. A beautifully sore spot for warmth fading, warmth generating. Must leave warmth to get supplies to maintain the fire tho. Learning. Progressing. Stalling, progressing. Learning about care and repair. I’m not in the body yet, not in here, not even close. But it’s about a care for and a repair of. See. Du Mir I. A compilation of ill fitting parts. Du Mir I. So drawings happen, because drawings function as the bones of thinking, of sense. Drawing functions as a door to seeing, to knowing, to being. Drawing as the thing that begins an enquiry/the next journey. Bore witness to ways I’ve never seen my brain contort before. This is just the beginning, still gathering brave, shoes that will do the job, and packaging sustenance to maintain clarity and will. Uncertain, experimental, not founded on logic. Stray parts, overflow bits, working blind, working by working. Following threads finer than hair. A sharp hard woman a soft This is not stagnation, hold still more some. Floating, morphing, no more shape shifting. I’ve made it to base camp- a house in the sky.
Waiting, release, conflict, love and the abyss.
