if there's anything that happens, really, if there's any effort to making things happen it's the silent movements underneath the shadow as sun comes in through my window on this sunday as the sun sets, it's the typings that you do inside, the epsilon of movement and effort that you carry in alone. I repeat this like a mantra as I put on my socks to go see friends, galleries, worthwhile creations, dip briefly into the stew of cheaply drunken revelry coating the floor like standing water the height of three-inch heels. here's an excursion into the city and its light where the magic lies in the absence of magic, onion-skin moments, the hairnet underneath the wig, the backstage quiet of a play, a movement uninterested in presence that it becomes its own presence. for me, anyhow.

and afterwards the lovely moments can be and often are an eastward walk back home, or on bicycle, feeling the resistance of the bridge concrete against my pedals as I'm above the east river, sodium yellow lamps, the moment my fingers are poised above a keyboard, things like that. everything happening in the epsilon of action. there are no real grandiose moments, just an endgoal and an endless series of minuscule ones, just as there's no "real" film but a series of still frames.