RESolV

Hope is a shovel packing feces into buckets, carried from one bed to the next; troweling it out onto open sores and burnishing bandages. It tells me that the next twelve thousand days could possibly repair the last and that some object, lover, or child could bring me back to play. It quiets the fear that busy hands are somewhere choking fairness. It buries the doubt that other eyes look on yours to see beyond their own reflection. It wrings every drop of fluid from your body and sprays it out in celebration at the least success. It is the only palatable excuse for the “creation of works derived solely for pleasure.” It performs for an audience occasionally distracted (or consumed) by forms at once compulsive, useful, and transforming. I am resolution; near bursting from the weight of so many false starts, just short of shutting up and getting back to work.