The artist is halfway; no longer a musician exactly. But he must think about justification which was going to be methodology. Then lying awake at night, thinking sort-of, if free jazz is or was to be my secondary methodology, wait, or, I thought, of I’m not sure, acoustics, order; which then means I do like order things or backslide back to anarchy… Come to think of it none of this so far can accommodate animals or stars, spirit or wind, or my aloneness. Bill Viola knew this when he almost drowned. The in-between, the gaze; the existence between reasoning is a gaze that is formless.

The apple drops out of the sky and I thought, of the fire or of numbers; of trying to find that long-lost left brain. Then starting to come up with other methods, still more and more, as the search goes on. All this and my mind. Was I in there or did I imagine something I should have called decomposing? I keep on naming these methods of mine, grasping for a light in the dark. To compose and then break it down or take away musical artifacts such as time signature, bar lines, stems, all those coded symbols, I should be writing here about something more mystical. This all that is left? An idea that was there all along, an idea of the gesture it seems, the day after meeting cellist Vic Rawlings (my photos of him). Gestures, more powerful than all the methods someday; the gaze, silence, the dance of a hand.