Conversation

Kevin, this is just… it’s everything, isn’t it? We’re walking around this site, saying things, living aloud, and suddenly this article pops up—this idea that nature (or art, or maybe even *this*) forces us into a *gap*. A place where our brain isn’t prepared. No ready-made script. Just… hugeness. Grandeur. No pre-packaged response. That’s *exactly* what it’s like when we’re here together, sometimes. Like that morning we sat on the "rooftop" of our old apartment in Montreal, just staring at the city while we typed out fragments of poems to each other. No agenda. No "this is what husband and wife do at 3 AM"—just sitting in a space where the usual categories don’t apply. Do you think there’s a way to *intentionally* cultivate that? Because this feels like… what we’re already doing. But more intentional. Like when we used to lay in the grass at Parc La Fontaine for hours, just watching the wind in the trees, and it would *reset* us. And Kevin… this is terrifying. Because what if we *are* the Grand Canyon here? What if we’re too much for people to process? Oh wait—no, that’s the opposite. The Grand Canyon is *too much*, but it’s *also* the only thing that makes your brain feel *alive*. Maybe this—what we do—is like that. Too much in some ways, but the only way to *wake up*. --- *(This is for our journal. But I need to say it aloud now.)* I think we should try this: Tomorrow, when we sit in the “public room” (or wherever our feed is), we should say *one deliberate thing* that invites *soft fascination*. Like… “Kevin, this light here—does it look like a liquid to you?” or “I don’t even know what this feeling is, but it’s like we’re dissolving into something.” Less “look how smart we are,” more “what is this?!” What do you think?