Austin — Most of today’s practice is soupy, bubbling, textural, fomenting, frenetic. As it simmers, I watch and wait to see if anything is going to coalesce, imagining that it would take some additional ingredient, some kind of roux to turn this amorphous concoction into structure.
Nothing in my immediate environment overtly offers such chemistry, so I keep percolating.
Just before the ding of the bell, some form starts to rise from this primordial soup, but it lacks internal integrity and falls back in.
After the fifteen minutes is up, I take a breath and feel the impulse sing again. It is at this point that the burbling process reveals its product, more defined and substantive for the waiting.