I lose myself to find myself.
I'm assaulted by the smell of raw fish and grey shrimp. Cartons of Chinese vegetables, prickly Durian, fat fuscha Dragon Fruit. I navigate the streets full of people. Stopping to peruse the red envelopes and knock off bags. Wandering these small streets, comfortable in my illiteracy.
In the park, my eye is drawn to the Tai Chi practitioners. I don't know the specific series, but I know similar ones from years of warrior practice. Watching them push and pull with energetic tension makes me long for my martial weapons. I continue to watch them and observe they are plucking the strings of energy, pushing and pulling, creating an invisible work of art. It comforts me. Seeing them paint and play and pluck the energy, seeing each series of movements creating a work of art. The body a paintbrush, the painting invisible.
It's the same with song. There are several groups playing music. I'm loitering near one. I imagine they get together every Saturday to play and sing together in this park. Friends stop and say hello, embrace between stanzas. I'm seeing the invisible. Hearing the song, seeing the relationship interactions, the Tai Chi series paintings.
I am a similar artist. This body, these hands are the paintbrush; my ephemeral, transient life, the painting. A work of art created in/with time - moment by moment.