"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
                               
                                                                       A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf, 1929.

It is my very honor to participate in the closing reception of Making Space: Beyond a Room exhibition at Rosemary Duffy Larson Gallery (Broward College Central Campus) with a reading of my short poem Fly. 

Fly

Elements layer over each other.

All see through.

None is first, none is last, none is middle.

They keep rearranging.

It is quite exciting.

Easily, it gets quite confusing.

It is tangled information that keeps re-tangling.

Everything connects, overlaps, interacts, webs.

It is not a chain reaction.

It is not mechanical.

It involves a certain amount of chaos.

In its essence it is organic.

Unpredictable.

Quantum.

Strangeness is very dominating.

But all I can keep doing is holding back to the order.

I need to explain myself all the time.

I need a post.

I need a beam.

I need to stand solid and reaffirm my realness.

I need to repeat that I am a part of something.

But I am casting this shadow until I turn into something else.

Occupying space is such a wonder because one thing occupies space

That occupies space, that occupies space, that occupies space…

Everything is always open.

And that is too much for me to fly through

Because

I cannot fly.

So I start closing doors and creating boundaries for myself.

And it goes as far as conveying a half – presence.

Again.

It is so impermanent that it can fall apart anytime.

It is like the social fabric clinging onto the earth.

If it stops clinging, it will fall out in the sky.

There is always that other option.

As grounded as I seem to be

I am always above the ground

In between the walls

And wish for no ceiling.