We were in my studio where almost every inch of wall, floor table and shelf is crammed with stuff in process and use, with tools, & paint & vine charcoal & buttons & books & thread & blank paper & other paper covered with notes or ideas or solo, duet, trio, quartet or orchestral music. Even the chairs here carry drips from paintings long sold, are saddle-worn from 20 years of rehearsals; ready for more of both. Almost everything emits light, or energy, if you prefer that – either because it’s becoming something, or it’s ready to be of use in the becoming of something. It’s noisy with work, here – louder than the cars and sirens outside, distorting the seconds as the retro-industrial clock strives to maintain regularity, but often concedes it’s rule to some other God than Time.
She looked like a dry ocean sponge soaking up water when she asked me how I knew what I wanted. I felt privileged – as if by asking she put me in a club I’ve often wondered about,
<thought bubble even now: “I’ve no idea. But maybe … They Get It.”>.
Hope my answer was ok. It was something about what your heart tells you.