Above: sketch of a suburb— viewed from the spire, as it were. A suburb represents, to me, a place that lacks the most wonderful parts of both cities and wide open spaces*; A pattern imposed; a restrictive one— made to serve its developer’s purpose rather than its inhabitants. Sometimes, life feels that way, no?
(how things move altogether too quickly and smoothly once a pattern is imposed)
It‘s what patterns are for.
It’s both good and bad; comforting and regrettable. Like choosing to stay in and get a good sleep when it’s a big wondrous and scary blizzard out. You know what I mean; one feels torn, a bit. Yet resolved. It‘s life— that feeling of contradiction that somehow fits because we‘ve been socialized and trained to accept that it fits.
Days, weeks simultaneously dragging and speeding by. It‘s the unquantifiable aspect of time that math-science is less equipped to deal with than psychology-science. Viz. feelings and other ephemera more in the realm of the social sciences, aka art literature poetry philosophy— the realms comprising questions and not so many answers (yet every answer, too)†.
Math-science satisfies the Libra in me (picked up perhaps from proximity to my balanced Libra** brothers). The designer in me thrives on the practicality of measurement; of the quantifiable. The artist (Scorpio) in me prefers to live the questions, as Rilke put it.
Always torn. Ah, well.
(I‘ve made a life of it, why stop before the show‘s ended?)
:: Film at eleven ::
I‘m waxing gibbous, as witches and other observers of the atmosphere are wont to say. Or waning! It all comes round the same, every month. </thesis>
Aside, watch this space for new art photos writing. By and by (and by that I mean soonish) it will’ve been dusted off after the recent period of quasi-neglect / randomness. A trip abroad is in the offing at month‘s end which shall restore some life to th’ old blog!
. . .
* I started life early in a suburb; then we moved to the Farm; then I moved to The city (NYC!). I choose farm or city over suburb any day of any week. The reasons are manifold and my own, which I’ll happily explain if asked, and are a preference, not a judgment.
† Here lies the loophole through which religion creeps, beware! Or indulge; as suits— who am I?)
** One is in fact a Virgo, but close to the cusp, so I’ve always thought of him as a Libra, too.
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