Do I kill myself, do I destroy myself? What is art for me other than constant rebirth.

Is it like going through my birthing without recollection of it, only with the sense of force of how it happened. How it might have happened and am I become always different. Force of birth became me, which lit me up and it puzzles me, force of new in me, of comfort, uncomfortable and the never present fulfilment. The moment, the happening, faces, noises, appearing and thoughts of my birth, my red face in a photograph. Me coming onto this earth, unexpectedly. I was allowed to be born, let out, led to instructions and be without them. I allow myself be born over and over again. What do I make of myself is a plan, map and is spontaneous pain and joy of making from scratch. I never know the complete result of me. There is work to be done.