As the hide dries

Dear Outside,

Where do I end and you begin? Everything is just the same kind of materials, repeated over and over and reused over and over. How can a division ever be made? Or is it the division that makes the materials relevant? Without division no change, without change no time and without time no life. Without you no me.

Yours truly, The Inside

 

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Drying raw hide, sewn on to cast concrete

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Dried hide, revealing the structure of the concrete underneath

Quite concrete

Dear Poets,

You’ve told me that no one is an island. But also that everybody dies alone. Which is it? I’m finding it hard to figure out if I am an isolated container of life or if we’re all just reflections of the same thing, whatever that thing is. And you seem to be of every opinion. You probably don’t know either and in the meantime we keep pulling in both directions, drawing lines between people but doing almost anything to be allowed to belong.

Love, The Reader

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Insulating or isolating?

Dear Container,

Where you ever empty? Who filled you with me? Somebody claimed your space and filled you with their own content, that’s how I got here. These borders that surround me are your definition and my division from the outside. Why do I let you? You insulate me and protect me against unwanted influences. I worry about, and long for the isolation you promise to give me. But can you really? Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. What is it then we’re shutting in and shutting out – to make something or someone into an island?

I am documented and filed, so I really do exist. But where you ever empty before me?

Always wondering, The Contained

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Iron fabric and branch.

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Red velvet and branch.