sarah took this.
whether i am interested in movement or stillness is vacillating at any given moment. my predilection, is, itself, moving and halting. and i think about the kinetic distance between them.
(as if the movement of things wasn't defined by the relative stillness of others. and vice versa.)
spring is green-whistling and hissing, turning itself into summer. my hand is out the car window. this machine is moving, but barely, slowing to a stop at the corner by a heavy gray house, wrought-iron enveloped. the sprinklers are chatting and the whole scene seems to be sweating; someone is humming from the upstairs window. but my eyes are pulled to where dusty light-tunnels are winking through a rosebush. at me, i think. the universe in all its tiny, self-mirroring fractions is secretly arranging its parts into this one sparkling scene. and i will drive by --
and if some other vision pulls my attention, i think -- i could so easily miss this. and i can back up the car and try to recreate this -- but i can't.
and it is small, and unimportant, this dusty light and winking rosebushes and spring. but it is untenable. and the untenability of things is what drives you maddest.
that you are moving, or they are --
the unkeepability of things.