A fabulous, marvelous, splendidly curvaceous spring day and I can’t remember what caught my attention in the paper this morning, early, over weak green tea. I recall the birdsong, though, and the clear sunlight with specks of the world in the rays.
I remember now. That’s what Hugo said about glory: It is sun and dust. Which is what I read in the paper, someone citing that as a definition of cinema and the Cannes festival, shimmering on and on: Between the projector and the screen, we always see dust.
That’s the world, too. Every moment is thus.
The sun is in the dust, the dust is in the sun. Right in the middle of all this ado – not beyond, not behind, not below – but right here and now. Right here at the desk, my eyes on the wall pinned with reminders of those who seek/sought what I seek, fellow artist-trippers on this way of sun and dust.
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