Gently rocking in my wooden chair out on the porch, unhurriedly swaying into the rotation’s black robes, folding like a veil over daylight; just so. Yes, just so – no intention, no agenda, no goal. And whilst I roll on the chair’s curved edges, while night surpasses day, and granting all forges ahead, somewhere in one of life’s countless little arenas the movements of the universe seem not to matter.
Here perched on the top row, the still looker-on sets eyes and ears upon spectacles that can only be drawn by the trajectories of our trivial human existence, simultaneously carved into impermanent meaning: a boy and his BMX swaggering over the asphalt, popping a wheelie, turning and twisting, at its heel a stray dog like a loyal servant chasing shadows; there a kid, just a toddler, bouncing along, moving his body to yesterday’s rhythms, guided purely by that inner jitter our hearts and souls echo. Oh it spreads to yet one more, completely surrendering social apprehension, simply giving in to the urge to dance, all the while balancing a basket on her head. In that same production someone haphazardly kicks a ball, hitting another squarely across the face, whimpers, an apologetic fist bump, eyes lock, seconds hastily counted down, somewhere a game has found a new beginning, and a shirt and a bottle mimic two posts.
What is the meaning of anything now?