Journal Entry, April 10, 2019 – Gravity

7 p.m.
This, the first Tuesday after the weeks of curating, preparation, and organizing the opening of the “Pedals and Paws” (art) show on Saturday, I stopped all efforts directed towards any responsibility this morning, parked the car – on impulse – and walked along the river. I watched some ducks that seemed to be laughing at each other’s stories and there was a lot of debris from a recent storm bobbing reluctantly towards the ocean. There was a sprinkle of rain – the sound of which I noticed as it hit the brim of my hat – and a tug boat pulling a pallet of logs gave a signal to some synchronized rowers as it neared the Ross Island bridge. I ordered coffee through a window from a young man whose breath I could see and who was wearing gloves without fingers, a thick head of hair, and a generous smile. I find myself increasingly noticing the complexions, hair, and the quick and effortless movement that younger people make, not with a sense of envy really – well maybe some – but rather with a sense of curiosity about how that spontaneity of body movement just seems to get up and walk away from us. I walked about a mile and a half, today, not with any greater commitment to become more spontaneous as I was when I was younger, but rather focused instead on using the coffee cup to warm my hands, and noticed how imperceptibly the trees have greened and painted over the structures of winter; how the river makes a noise when you concentrate on listening for it.

It felt good to stop and do nothing this morning except to become reacquainted with gravity.