What strange landscapes! My own voice becomes a beacon as I settle into the drone of the cello. I call out and then listen. I hear things I am ordinarily too busy to hear. How does the body-beneath-thinking feel the place that I am in? What vibrations? Resonances? Echoes? Are here? What is contained in this grain of time? What imprints are imprinting themselves? Like fossils in the geography of mind, they are embedded in me. This is a tracing of origins. 

I choose 12 yellow daisies from the hillside outside the old firehouse.

I am silence.
I am noise.

I am empty.
I am full.

I am rhythm.
I am chaos.

I am masculine.
I am feminine.

I am ubiquitous.
I am rare.

I am wisdom.
I am a fool.

I am substance.
I am debt.

I am ephemeral.
I am immortal.

I am hungry.
I am sated.

I desire.
I despise.

I embrace.
I repel.

I am song.
I am sung.