There is nothing more noble, more brave, more poignantly human than to strive to bring order to the chaos of existence. This is what artists do. "Order" may be fourteen lines long, as in a sonnet; six inches square or 11' x 3' on a piece of paper or cardboard; musical notes that wait for knowing hands to pluck the strings in a certain way...
...or that order might be words set free into a dimly-lit room, over the refuse of dinner, between friends. A river of words, punctuated by laughter and immediate revision and twinkling eyes.
Interwoven stories of people real and imagined (and both) hiding, emerging from hiding, seeking freedom, free...
Stories of where we are from and what we have endured and where we are going. Stories wherein we laugh at the "what we have endured" part, although the laughter is bittersweet, and we wonder if the endurance was worth it, was it enough, did we really endure or did we hide behind the appearance of having endured.
Does a fish in a tank know it is in a tank? Does a fish in a river know it is in a river?
Do we?
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