Disturbed Waters

Experiment #459 by Sarah Seager

The drip, drip, dripping sound of water dropping from leaves onto the skylights over head was what greeted us this morning. The storm that is raging to the north decided to come early, visiting the slopes of the mountains first, coating everything with a thin sheen of water and dust. A cement bowl of water that usually reflects sunlight onto the ceiling is mute, instead only the shimmering of its surface can be seen, as the wind picks up then falls quiet.

The weekend that just passed was filled with conversations, about work, the possibility of uses for different materials that can potentially be incorporated, love, and of course gatherings of old and new friends. The sunshine was with us throughout the entire time, clouds absent, the nights chilly from the exposed sky. Seeds finding their way into freshly turned black/brown soil, lettuces, spinach, and various herbs now finding life after a long sleep.

After a full evening of conversations, ending over dishes scattered about the kitchen, a rack that was filled, emptied, filled again, the morning routine is found in the silent hours where only night watchmen and hipsters are awake. Espresso machine loaded with the morning shot, the coffee maker filled with water, a fresh filter and grounds, a bagel cut, a sandwich made for lunch, tea drinks prepared for afternoon enjoyment, only then can sleep be found for a few hours before the alarm rings and the day begins. It is in those moments, that one realizes that only a finite amount of words are had, that once the daily allotment is spent, it may take days to find more.

The absence of words doesn’t mean that the mind is blank, only that in the wet stew of the brain things become ensnared and trapped unable to make their way out of ones lips. But that’s okay, it’s best to allow for life to happen, there will be plenty of time later to explain anything and everything that occurred, was thought, experienced. Hindsight, even if hours, allows for a gentleness to be brought to the immediate past.

There are a million small details that happen through a day, some of which we notice, the majority lost to us. Even with that small slice of life that we take in, we understand and appreciate the profound of the mundane.

wbh

 

 

 

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About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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