It brightens. The tree outside yields its surfeit of white blossom. It is popcorning.
On the still-damp pavement, witness some early shorts worn by impatient jocks on their way back from heat-causing sport. There are safety colours on cyclists and runners: hi-vis, day-glo, orange, yellow and green.
It's like everyone is standing in front of a Stan Brakhage projection.
Everyone walks a melody line sung sweetly by Linda Perhacs.
Don't you start thinking about legs and feet. Longer days and long playing records and saying yes not no. To distraction, open windows, one more whatever, staying out late. And feet bare on the floor. That's when I can show you mine are different lengths.
I was listening to Dots and Loops by Stereolab [Fig. 1] and scrolling through the newest collection by Dries Van Noten [Fig. 2]. As usual, except for the fur, I found plenty to like. Fashion isn't my nation but Dries speaks the language well.
Under the influence, I picked up the brightest bouquets I could find at the flower market. I found a pair of blue and yellow striped socks for Jamie; the shades would befit a tropical bird or a tab of LSD. I swapped my army green watch strap for one with four different colours. I decided to get into acid house. I got out the New Order album with the oversaturated sleeve [Fig 3].
I'm feeling very frothy.
And a bit spring feverish. My mind is wandering to places like,
Unrealised Tumblr themes:
Hot Guys at Art Events in the Long 1960s.
Male Companions of Post-Structuralist Philosophers at Well Appointed Night Spots in the 1970s.
We toured around London catching the last day of exhibitions: Hans Arp [Fig. 4]. Josh Blackwell [Fig. 5]. Eventually we wound our way down to South London Gallery; the drawings and sculptures by Richard Fleischner made me feel like I was in Oakland. South London in general makes me feel like I am in Oakland. We walked streets between Peckham and Camberwell watching the sky darken and looking at interesting buildings. We were killing time waiting for Kelly Nipper's performance. I ate spicy plantains out of a plastic bag. When we got back to the venue, the crowd had gathered. There were art types wearing clothes to be appreciated: sweaters were colour fields and coats were biomorphic sculptures. Jamie has a tendency to locate some boy wearing sea foam green.
I explained the concept of seapunk to Jamie and he sighed, well, that just seems like a stretch.
The performance was stunning and disorienting.
And dark. So afterward we drank dark beers — a 'chocolate porter,' and a 'smoked' one. It is still winter, after all.
A little girl on the Overground was wearing reindeer tights; I pulled up my jeans and showed Jamie that I was giving my Christmas socks an encore, too.
Behind the scenes from the bright feelings, some kind of worry must linger. I had a grotesque dream in which I met my friend's baby: split down the middle, half his face was bleached and splotchy, and half his body was baked beans. It's really wet, said his father with a trace of disappointment, when you have to get your hands in.
The bright flowers now sit in a chipped vase like an empty promise. I never get flowers, or very rarely. But I am feeling determined we've encountered some hint of spring.
I had said, don't you like Arp. And Jamie was like, I do… It's just so resolved.
But Hans (Jean) Arp could never possibly resolve his lofty goal — to transform the world. He spoke of art that make life more bearable, simplifies, identifies with nature, grows the stars of peace, love and poetry in the head and in the heart. Arp wrote of an art that appears, and melancholy leaves, dragging along its grey suitcases full of black sighs.
It's bright but it's raining.
Plans are unfolding like maps across tables, plans for summer or at least spring. You unfold the map and it has its creases so why can you never put it back the way it is meant to be?