Transcripts
{ambient sounds of birds and an urban park throughout.}
Here's what I know.
That certain kinds of pain become unrecognizable when you carry them long enough. You can't tell that you're hurting; they don't seem to hurt. They just rub against the same spot, on the same foot, in the same shoe, over and over and over again.
Here's what I know.
Thinking gets in the way of knowing. Knowing is older than words, older than bones. Knowing is like the Appalachians: a long and twisting spine, split between two continents, clawed apart by desperation and floods.
Here's what I know.
Squirrels like peanuts. So do scrub jays.
Crows get picky.
Here's what I know.
It takes acres and acres of woods to pad the sounds of humans.
Here's what I know.
If you want to scrub the ache and the scars away, you have to let go of words, let go of knowing, let go of thinking you know or can know.
Here's what I know.
When you turn off the fan, the breeze comes in the window.
When you stop grasping for power you discover it was rising up in you, all along.
