Sunday

I’m sitting in the garden, there is a flurry of mites between me and the lawn in front. The lawn is veiled with the sun and a layer of shadows from the leaves that fence the space into its own domain.

Quiet, the day has hardly begun as caffeine starts to kick through my system waking my mind into a flurry of thought. What will today be? The open ended chasm is a comfort and anxiety. Can I leave today behind.

In the background small sounds, the odd bark of a dog, a single crow and the sudden break from peace. My dog has seen a squirrel. Then the calm returns.

I’m waiting for that moment of insight when I’ll know… Today.

Soon the house will be full of movement and each thought will be a distracted one. A tangent from a moment that preceded it.

But, for a brief spell the inactivity, the sun and the chirping of birds are their own world; there is no experience except the space in front of me; stretching only as far as my senses and the expectations of time, my mind goes no further. It’s a moment of immediacy and of anticipation.

How much of our experience is immediate? How much anticipation? How much the combination of the two; an interchange of sight, sound, memory and imagination all play at once. The caffeine is kicking in.

The door to the patio opens and the moment is broken. The day continues.

Lying in the bedroom the sirens in the distance hark back the morning. Their call is a call away from the narrow focus of the room.

Earlier in the day an implicit agreement was made. Nothing would happen, laying lazy foul like limp lethargy the dog lies staring at the wardrobe ahead. Is he depressed?

Moments of banter are like jousts. Some a show of intellect, others waltz to find feet in synchronicity.

Moments. They’re gathering on the day as it builds into vacuity.

“Shall we go to the dog park?” Why ask the question? It is inspiration for its own content. An idea, a flutter of thought only dampened down as the caffeine is offset by the heat. Silence.

On the wall ahead of the bed is a painting titled Levi. He’s wearing a suit and carrying a rose limped in one hand. He has the beauty of a 20 something man about to go on a date he’s far too cool for. The obvious pose of the painting betrays its very intent… To be what it is, a painting. It perfectly absorbs the day in its contrivance.

“I love Curiator” … “What’s the point in it?” Another gesture to the sanguine. We browse art together comparing collections. There are several fashion photographs from the 50’s and 60’s that we look at, again analyzing the gestures the images make to provoke. What was it about those images? To capture beauty, play with it. Saul Leiter, Lillian Bassman.

Unlike the contumacious art of the time it begged the question of beauty without making the great and barbaric leap into the ugly. It is the art of the dreamer who can afford to wallow in the dream which so distracts by the real. Distracts into beliefs that those very dreams are real. Isn’t that realism?

In examining the images before us we are searching for a common vision into the world. Art acts in that way for the spectator. It is a middle ground in which a nod suffices to share understanding; it is like two gentlemen who want nothing less than to speak and nothing more than comfort in each other’s necessary company. But, in that nod a new world is created. It is the birth of an idea brought to the front. The feet find a rhythm.

It were as if an opiate had been applied directly to the day. Time is like molasses over the air that comes through the window with each passing car, reminding that the moment does exist, you are still awake.

Soon the sun will set. It’s setting passes almost unnoticed most days. The kinetic chaos that raptures removed the most intimate of times,

The front door has opened. The day carries on. The sun is setting. I’ll take the dog for a walk.

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