The mirage of afternoons, those portals that don't exist in themselves. Afternoons are simply thresholds between morning and afternoon. Step in one side and depart the other; the blank sills are of no consequence.
The week comes to a close, but not after a short ride into town, a proposed jaunt towards Tesla's old stomping ground for a meeting to end meetings ahead of an expected hiatus of a week, maybe nine days. The week certainly has not been one of fiction with little writing done here or within the ever-shrinking novella. Once more the mutual exclusivity of writing and working exhibits itself with gross realism.
But that is not to say that achievements have not been forthcoming. It's been a good week by those standards with several tasks complete: the final structuring of production documents; the reducing of overlong shortlists, construction of artist portfolios and invites. Things move ahead.
Engagements of a social kind - those elusive, expensive spectres of convergence - have also been pleasant. Monday saw us sitting cross legged within tall, itchy no-mans-land grasses hearing the crickets play in the evening as people milled around cooking meats and regarding icy-blue projections. In the background a polygonal temporary structure sheltered a riot of inquisition, children darting between its shadows and then up to the top of the fountain, a trickle of water edging down the rubble and back to earth.
When was it, later in the week, that we took ice-creams along to the old pillared bridge and sat looking out at the swans gathering under dusky light before heading over the canal for food and twilight beers?
Regardless, thoughts turn a little to reading, to pushing my Pynchon vocabulary, to thinking about how many thirds are needed to complete a novella. There is much anticipated of this book I write, but only by myself. At the moment a conclusion must be reached - the frames upon which the planes will be constructed are still not yet confirmed - general semantics, science and sanity, Many Worlds theory deviations, Lynchian a-narrative... all hold court for contention. Still, what must be told is a story and I will take every route available to get there. Some of these routes will become mapped, but some of them will not and will be lost beneath the process like a river beneath a built city. Discovering how to disappear things is only the first step.