I have a long-distance relationship with an artist.
He sends me postcards painted on, collaged, bits of thread hanging off, sometimes some words etched in.
I return amateur drawings, bits of found art, and — most recently — words.
I don’t know why I sent a list of words. At the moment it was all the creativity I could summon. Whatever was running through me did not want to make sense. The words hung in the air and did not piece themselves together. So I shoved them in the envelope with Miles’ address.
I didn’t get my next art card for a couple of months. I thought maybe the relationship had died. It was an experimental one, after all.
I returned from my holiday travels to find an envelope on my desk from him. A clever drawing, a poem written from the word salad I’d tossed his way, and a fresh crop of words to be re-arranged.
I set to it eagerly. Unlike my list, his words were already separated. Entropy begged to be organized. I started with like sounds and weaved a story, filling in the gaps with my own pen, and a poem burst forth. Now I’m putting a stamp on it and sending it to you.