If you come to visit me & I appear to not be listening to you, rest assured that I am listening, but I am also burning off nervous energy by making these collages, none of which took more than ten minutes to compose, cut & paste. The collages are as unpremeditated as I can make them. I really am listening–the conversation keeps me from thinking about what my hands are spontaneously doing.
Click on images for larger view. Originals are 6 x 6″
A hot pink dawn over the river this morning only lasted about thirty seconds, but highly intense. Some perceptions have to be caught on the fly, others can be savored. Perception is neutral, a register of input, to borrow an ugly term from electronics. It’s what one makes of the input–the phenomenological spark–that creates a meaning. I don’t know how. (Weather & atmospheric phenomena continue to be my master metaphors.) Light from the sun shining across the river / taste of the first sip of coffee. The adventure of what happens.
Note: First thing in the mornings, while Carole is making coffee, I often have the feeling that the various systems & subsystems of my body are coordinating with each other & coming into coherent functioning. That’s what’s supposed to happen. It’s bad news when “systems” are glitchy, but that has not been happening so much recently. Things going relatively smoothly–I almost said “booting up,” demonstrating how hard it can be to keep domains of metaphor separate, though I think it’s important to be able to do so.
It is very early autumn here in the north country, the tops of the maples just beginning to change color while the lower branches remain green. The days are warm, the nights cool. This morning after Carole left for work I took the dogs out on the deck with me and sat for a while enjoying the still-cool morning air, the warm sun, the breeze. The sky was an expanse of pure blue beyond description & the river picked up that color, the surface broken by small wavelets that sent points of brilliant silver light in every direction. It occurred to me that, despite everything, this was the most beautiful morning of my life. Or perhaps it was because of everything. The ten-thousand things in perfect harmony, so that even the sound of a truck grinding its gears as it rattled over the bridge fit perfectly into the music of the morning.
Was I flooded by the life force overnight so that I could wake feeling this blissful? Or am I just high on Percocet? I slept only in bits & pieces last night, actually. Haven’t had this sort of insomnia in quite a while, but when I woke just now after sleeping an hour (from 4:00 to 5:00) I felt filled with bliss. Did the pickup (probably) with a bad muffler wake me? Can’t remember, but I was aware of it coming over the bridge & turning left onto Three Falls Road by following the sound it made downshifting for the turn then accelerating slowly up the first hill across the reservoir. The sound of that broken muffler echoing around the woods & open water & off the banks of the river made me aware how far my sense of hearing reaches, orienting me in space–at least out here in the country–on a far greater scale than my sense of sight. Even when I’m watching the moon, I tend to bring the moon down to me rather than gaining some sense of the great distance between myself & it. I make it intimate. But with the sound of a truck laboring uphill on an otherwise silent summer morning, all of space becomes intimate–“I placed a jar in Tennessee . . .”