Paint a Picture
Divinations of daylight, the concentrations of attention and the ways in which timing confiscates meaning and reason. These bright morning skies, the harsh lines of horizon upsetting the bright, colorful contrast of low hanging clouds, of atmosphere meeting parts of the tops of mountains, brightly sinking into high altitude. Nothingness, the distinctions of color and these ways of becoming part of environment, the sky parted in these colors bursting out at me everywhere: orange like the moss clinging to rocks still, lifting up these layers of snowfall to the soft hue of daybreak. Attention and focus, the distinctions of persistence and these levy weights in graft against that which has already been decided as though decidable. The actuality of that which is distinction in what notice could be had or given in a landscape, in any amount of emotional ties that we could give to the environment, in these tricks of personalization and the ways in which feeling can overtake sight. The instinct and imagination in that which is actually noticed or given attention and that which is left with the rest of the colors of sunrise today. Occupations of regard and timing, the portions of reloque left out or unnerving senses of distal confusions and no hope to convey anything else. The excitements of space and the timing of significance, these deep time motions of Earth and the ways in which change creates both beauty and volatility. The exactitude of measureless space and the distinctions of rain or atmosphere in that which is supposedly connected, these hopeless continuities of chance in change and referent conditioning in the cognitive distortions of personalization. The thin air, plain air understanding, these memories painting slight differences than anyone would notice underneath the sky. The movement of daylight, these lowlight and highlights aren't sufficient, the concentration of shade or the ships at night and red warning lights across a black watered bay. One painting by Monet at night, the only one I can remember. I will remember it as though its his only one, his only night piece, just so...romantically. The feeling of wanting some sort of plain air illustration in writing, sitting in a gallery of plain air paintings. There's no sunlight, here, and the sky in my memory is already more beautiful than the one outside my window well. The pond there and his garden must be still. Must remain just the way I remembered from a painting or picture. Cezanne could remember it moving, but thinking of Monet? These paintings must be a new place he has created, if only for Alice and Camille. Transcendentally, these conditions of unrest in that which is remembered or actual, in that which takes form or shape and stays relevant, Pollock, and that which is its own relevance. Maybe don't even need a scene.
Face it, nothing...