As I do not promote my work commercially nor network my way to notoriety, it has to stand on its own two feet. If someone discovers something valuable, they will share it. If what I make does not resonate or connect, people will pass it by.
The more art is known makes no difference to its aesthetic value or the merit of its expression or ideas. The less it is known, the narrower its impact. Unlike the act of making, in its affect less is not more.
After two hours I slip away from a birthday celebration. A milestone. I rarely meet socially with members of a badminton club I play for. I talk and listen. I meet a beautiful ten day old baby.
There are around fifty people. I find social gatherings of more than a handful uncomfortable as there is so much I wish to say but hold back. We have little in common yet much to share.
I gaze at the newborn held gently in her mother's arms, eyes closed. She knows nothing but love.
Interval: the space between.
I use the word 'time' more than any other in this place of thoughts. I am bound by it. I cannot come to know without its travel, and yet things I come to know can also be unconstrained by time. Although my experience of love is from one moment to the next, love exists through the filaments I know and remember as the passing of my time. Perhaps I need time's interval to prevent my being overwhelmed.