Now is the rabbit year so I write this to Hem’s Idle (The Rabbit Song), a tune not turned since possibly the tiger’s. Lately, nightly and punctuating the day’s idlings, my previous life’s inertia aches to write or sing or make and so am I here, my folks waiting out Marcelo’s nap to make 떡국 as yet another inertial force of tradition demands. Maybe this is a year to be carried by the rabbit’s run, to drift by the shift breeze and let the lightfoot lead.
Today I’m aware of how awe-stunned I sit behind my eyes as Marcelo constructs new sentences and weaves the concepts that will form the base layer of self/other and their threadbare tensions. Through the layers of the years I see in rag fragments the inner world of my own childhood.