There is a certain wind in Observatory, a wind that will snatch you up and drop you
on the outskirts of Craddock in the Karoo. At twilight behind everyone else,
behind the whole movement of things being blown forward from behind. The night
arriving. Watch it pass you and rise. All of it contained in the light dwindling and
sand pushing around and past your feet in the desert. Standing in suspended no
-motion. A floating as life occurs. Focused, looking at a point and receiving colours
from the peripheries. Just as fast as that suspension is found, you'll turn into an
alley, catch the last breath of a twirl of air and move onward into daylight and
motion, the weekend. That time, a dream beyond the colours in your periphery.
"1919", John Cale. The Mask of Zorro. A cigarette. Water. Wind. And my whole
enormous textural, vivid, expansive life behind me. Chewing on the mnt.
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