All effort is only ever attempt. To live proximate may be to live close enough.
I live too in the essay- in the original sense- essayer- to try.
What if writing is only ever a road to carry us closer to what is possible to say? What if art is merely portal to something more nuanced or intriguing?
To try, to attempt, to remain in sight of beholding — isn’t this worthy of the effort. It’s what we learn by moving closer that brings us into contact with all that is essential after all.
In a world so focused on linear outcome (if I do X, I’ll gain y), and the metrics which measure success by virtue of the masculine demands of scale, reach and the guaranteed quantifiable; the value of the effort – the attempt- is so often overlooked.
I am interested in the circular attempt at returning to the questions which keeps haunting me; the questions which only a dive into the unknowables (and therefore the unquantifiables) of creative force can round. They are prompt to bring into form the things that keep nudging; invitations to put words or paint or action around what is seeking form, to give music or voice to or to bring to attention to, as a gesture of life itself.
To attempt is to be in conversation with something much larger. And to stay proximate to that may be the best conversation going…