© 2001 Dave Awl
It's odd how she fills in the corners of your life, a liquid presence that merges with the darkness for a period of time and then detaches itself to brush against you, run between your legs when you walk, or you look up to find her watching you intently while you were concentrating on something else. There is this current of communication that never resolves itself into separate signals or symbols of meaning; it merely flows between two poles underneath the visible surfaces of the room, informing the space, giving the silence a thickened quality with another world lurking behind it, like a mirror in a Cocteau film. There is a charge that she pulls out of the atmosphere and relays to you, a deeper grid she connects to and graciously allows you to feed from her connection. And just as she studies you, and you find yourself reflected and captured in two yellow globes that suggest the moon at Autumn equinox, you know that there are times (or rather, there is a time) when she enters your mind and you remember something — not at any particular moment, but rather something that belongs to the undercurrent of untime that runs beneath and between the isolated moments like a water table. Just as she has her human moments of speech and meaning, when she sits up and asks you something so clear and unmistakable that she seems for a moment to be fully dressed, there are those times when you are blessed to inhabit the undivided space that is her element, sharing with her the ability to not just see things but rather see into, through and beyond them.