The very early mornings are most magical still. Even like the one today. We are basically in a cloud now. The air is heavy with humidity, to the point that I could probably hold a glass out the window and it would slowly fill with the breath of my sleeping neighbors.
The early mornings are probably best, because even though the city is its constructed and taped together self, it appears to be dark and naturally grown and empty. Not in a threatening way, not as if something bad had happened and everybody were gone now. No, more like the time when things were just beginning to be possible for us, more like when there was still enough for us to travel long distances after food; the animals somewhere out there, or perhaps the other stuff just growing because it was not forced to, but simply grew in season. And that was what we followed really. The season. The sun.
The place simply feels less inhabited, less filled with us.
Silly, that the easiest way to enjoy such a morning is to leave on a plane, onto a different continent. Then to come back. And this is not insomnia. I actually do not put it into the jetlag drawer either. This is just a slightly different perspective from which I can perhaps have a glimpse at time. And it is possible to bypass this, of course. I can always return to a “familiar interface”, be it here, or be it some other location on screen. Always lit, always open, alway filled with traces of life. 24/7
But actually, I should be out there right now. I should be walking between trees in the park, the closest thing there is to nature, at least as far as I can travel this morning.
It appears to be raining. And it seems like that idea of holding out a glass might actually be not a far fetched one. Perhaps I will indeed walk outside. Perhaps when the sun is almost out. Perhaps then I could take a camera. Perhaps I could then look and then record some of the things I see. Somehow in a way that will keep the image in some very temporary space, trapped either as a thin layer of paint on paper, or maybe even as an incredibly fragile set of numbers, on some magnetic something, somewhere.
I just recently discovered that several years of photographs managed to just turn themselves into a patchwork of mistakes. They look like carpets now. No longer like moments of a human world. They were just beginning to feel foreign enough to me, to be able to delete most of them. Now I will need to keep them and their copies on various hard drives, hoping that they will be able to come back. So I can then delete them.
But maybe that’s not really the point. Maybe now is the only time that should matter. And maybe there is no reason to record, if one does it to avoid the now.
It is a beautiful morning, a calm and quiet now.
And I spent some time now, thinking about what it could be, were I not spending time thinking about what it could be.
Oh, the little circles within circles.