Once again, back  at the tent, She, emboldened by a moments reprieve from expectations (especially her own) seems, maybe, past the indelicacy of … the interruption.

 

 

Severity is her decided gift, a decision for all the crazies here at the tent; severity, lest the world spin even farther out of balance. Acute observation, nimble fingers, taut anatomy, severity in mind.  Closely fixed attention, decisions  hidden in the choice of placement, lest others mimic the skills (and demean the delicacy).

Trivial balance – boxes on boxes, squared and repeated left and right – endless, this is the enemy. Even here, credible artistic avant-gardes just want the ego form of balance – the lack of delicate attention, the bored response to failure, the (as it is) fear.

 

 

Delicacy, un-violated, broken, ripped, garishly devoured: delicacy, a veil necessary to exercise proportionate skeletal rhythms, the rush of trembling vibrations, the control.

Maybe long ago and far away, maybe, some orphaned dinner plates and a  need to consider what is past, (maybe lost) by some indelicate interruption were set to spinning, spinning, spinning the sounds of flutes and bowed strings.

 

 

All might fall in a moment, maybe devoured consumed depleted, maybe, (maybe – as has been noted – is a very big word), or, maybe …  delicately interrupted.