Centering requires patience, so I spend it until my arms shake. Then I pull, reckless and tired. I don't wait long enough. Balls of hard earned wedged clay go by like this, and my hands stain with orange oxide.
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I started writing songs a few years ago, and I found one a few weeks ago, still unfinished. I don't remember how to play it anymore, but I hear it, what I was trying to sing.
It's not bad. I could finish it, but can't see myself performing it now, and meaning it as I did then. Sometimes the moment goes.
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Art is in the moment.
Yes, rehearsal and craft, but sometimes after all that, it's performance, not art.
