Author: William C

I would like to rise with red hair and eat men like air, but am instead drifting with my sorrowful tears.

* Task Machine *

Between trembling and milking and bonding,
In the interval of surface and current and attention,
Impulse slips through the boundary of cognition while ambiguity dips below the technicality.

As hollow permeates the in-between of notion and motion,
We wander through the chamber of floating perception,

Void vomits emotion.
Uncertainty proliferates intuition.
Discomfort permits gratifying tension.

We are playing
In this task machine.

Journal Entry #1

I once quoted Virginia Satir for her sorrowful reminder on the subject of creation and regret; “I’ve often wondered how many dreams, and how many possibilities, have died with their owner without expression.” She said.
It makes me think of the meaning that dance has to me.
That in a sense, all my dances end with a desolate notion as it denotes the closing of a series of actions, a sequence of intentions, and perhaps a collection of my obscure emotions. It ceased to exist as I anchored myself into that still state. They were born and I am often time the only witness of the death of the expression.
That I gave birth to those dreams and possibilities yet they were born to be dead. Without being noticed, if I extend the metaphor by Virginia Satir, I became the only griever of the vanished existence.
But they existed.
As I would.

* Rosy Heart *


“I want you to put your nose here,
in all the fur;
you can make liquid.”
You said.
And you brush your hair,
as if the sensation links us in a metaphysical form.
Here,
at which I look, the almost hidden;
reveals the desire, the beauty, the holistic imagination,
the symbolic dreamy garden, the self-love, the confidence, the adventure, the complexity.
All these,
belong to you;
a completion, a human, I see you.
Rosy Heart.