Most of the time, I feel unencumbered by the clashings and conspiracies of colleagues; both feet several inches outside of the circle in which everything seems to happen. In the art of noticing, I am, at times, spectacularly inept. Though I can sit for hours, sketching and perfecting the same mouth. Here at the beach, the moon brings the sea suddenly to my toes, a surprise gift, and disappears, laughing, behind a cloud. Beyond the groynes, a little dog has chased the red kite too far, but she has not yet been lost long enough to panic.
I have thought lately that perhaps the duty of life is to make each of us more familiar with death. Not just the image of it, nor the concept, nor the loitering shadow in the slick alleyway, but the solid, sensual reality. The smoke, the metallic taste, the frosted heat, the overwhelming fullness and the falling emptiness, the smiling kiss, the wink and the graze of rough tarmac on your knee. The more I know life, the more I am forced to acknowledge death. I suppose, in this way, she is doing her job– though I question her methods on
The spaces have long been you. They are still you, but not entirely. There are pinholes of light where once there was only darkness. There is space around the sadness. The thoughts are there, and I cannot resist them, but in letting them be, in letting them churn and wrestle, watching with kind interest as they do, I can practise non-reaction. I don’t have to run to you. I don’t have to beg, or cry, or wish. Though I do wish, still. There was a fog that morning we trudged in silence to the wooden room in the forest. The