The Wallace effect

A Room in the Palace (after Velázquez), 2010, by Charlotte Bracegirdle

Vortex, that’s the word I was looking for.

Individual dots seemingly separate interconnect and extend out onto a vast field of potentiality.  A bumped head, an errant passage, a dropped article of clothing on the sidewalk, a wrapper discarded to be knocked about by whir of car fumes zipping by, ringing a variety of possibilities, some of interest, most not.  The maddening part is following the thread, the tiny golden fiber that leads to something tangible, not just the expository.  And each step, all the while keeping a finger on the line, we inch closer to different territories, a whole new landscape.

The Pale King understood this, lingering in his soiled gown, vestiges of a worn monarch that through years of seeing, chose blindness instead.   Too much comes in, the screen covers tattered from the start, allowing for all manner of insect, dust and debris to enter, cluttering ones interior.   In abdication there is a recognition, that it will all still continue, the wildness, the howling wind, the searing heat of thought and interaction.

The storm arrived as the candles at the dinner table were lit.  Fat summer rain drops intermittently fell, plopping onto the plates and into our glasses of wine.  One candle after another,  flickered as it struggled to fight against the wind as it kicked up with each passing storm cloud.  Lightning in the distance produced the counting game, one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand and so forth until the sound of thunder rolled by us.

Sitting in the darkness, the clouds swirling overhead, music seeping through the windows out to us, S and I watched the distant skyline, off to the peaks of the mountains covered in turbulent blacks and greens.  Smiling we talked of our children, our work, the music, and the weakening storm, each seemingly interconnected, glued within the fabric of our days.  Gentle warm winds washed over us, easing our concerns, endowing us with a sense of levity, offering sleepiness, trespass to dreams.  Touching the golden thread with extended forefingers, we gingerly walked through the darkness into the night, and all the days that follow.



About Sarah Seager

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