Home

ARTICLE 2

January .12. 2025

Walk the Line

Here’s what you can picture: us, a little sunburned, carrying a shell to the hills and meeting the people with the fallen rocks from volcanoes: black and sharp, the kind that made me bleed. We swapped salt for gold, cacao for cloth. What’s the score? I felt seen.

The rhythm in our work picked up; there was a long song in the motion. We only knew they’d be there for it.

Before the money, before the price, there was the look in someone’s eye.

Not a surprise, but maybe I recognized it.

Can I hold your place, and where you’re from?
What’s the earliest inclination of your matter?
A tremor in the air between you and someone else.

Could we eat each other?

Here, we trade in that current. When we admire one another, when we speak it aloud, write it down, or make it in response; we add weight. Remember the shell, and the obsidian they gave: proof that someone carried it from where we were. Chipped it from the earth, where it was found. Where it is now.

Inside this circle, it compounds. We grow without auction, without critic, without scarcity game. And when someone from outside encounters us, they don’t just see an object, they’ll see a belief. The value apparent as it is established. Not by a market, but by the care that came before it. The care we give.

Push toward each other.