The Instrument

I envy the precision of the engineer, the grounded exactitude of a trade, to be able to hold phenomenon within the spell of an equation, have the power to make something from a sum. I make things from shadows, the pulled threads of a mirage and echoes bubbling up from the bottom chambers of a void. I work with the vagaries of whim, waiting for something to appear from who knows where, letting a shape emerge from beneath a ghostly gauze of words or reveal its nature by a residue of absence left in the wake of its going. I am a gatherer of what is carried on the wind, the fragrance of flowers, moans uttered on lonely shorelines by the voices of restless seas, the cry of nightmares, the crescendos of love, becoming for a moment an instrument in some vast orchestra through which a divine song is being played.