Mirrored glass

One and Three Chairs, 1965, by Joseph Kosuth

One and Three Chairs, 1965, by Joseph Kosuth

For the second time in less than a week, a train headed downtown loomed up in the morning.  As for commutes it couldn’t be easier, wandering down the hill in a straight shot, standing on a platform exposed to freeway traffic in both directions searing by, becoming a blur after a minute or two,  just long strings of racing objects going passed.  In the distance the metro inches closer until it is upon us, and then we are gone.

Each trip represented a different purpose, yet each was interconnected.  Questions to be asked, listening for responses, reacting with new sets of re directs and followup.  One focused on catharsis, the other on conversion (the discovery of a format for retelling another’s story), with clairvoyance and intuition being the realm to speak within.   Meandering through ravines, passed houses gated, expanses of vacant land littered with brush and dusty roads, the train heads skyward before stopping forty feet above the city in Chinatown.

The first trip, days prior was off to the east, to a colony surrounded by the scent of diesel and tire rubber.  The second trip demanded a grounding into traffic, high rises, hills, and cluttered sidewalks, burrowing in small neighborhoods of charm and originality.  Five hundred yards in either direction led to a completely different perspective, a new view of the surrounding world.  And in this was solace.

Sitting in a coffee shop, a roasting machine spinning hot beans, a jazz band banging through one tune after another, rain falling outside the open roll door, we sat and discussed the commute to the east.  What is the story?  Where should it go from four floors up, and how ambitious should it be?  As the details were poured over it became clear that what was seen as a problem actually was the solution.  The genesis was a question desiring an answer.   The answer created a far ranging set of new questions that delved into tangents that spoke back into the main question.  Circular, yet encompassing of an honest desire to explain the connections, to follow the thread to its natural (or un natural) end.

Returning, riding thoughtless, empty headed in a good way, through the sun baked avenues, seeing people out about there ways, can only cause a soul to laugh with a giddiness of a child.  Street level, feet cranking the pedals, a joy can be found in the passing traffic, and pedestrian filled side and crosswalks.  Exposed to open air, smiles can be seen, conversations overheard, smells of ‘us’ (all that humanity creates and stews within) are all about.  Swerving down a side street the train tower is found, rising above everything below, sleek and clean.

Standing on a platform once again, the sun glaring out of the west, an understanding and compassion is found.  The question isn’t what or why the story and answers.  The question is why even ask the question of ‘how’, but allow for it to just ‘be’. And whatever may come will follow.

wbh

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About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
This entry was posted in Puritans, Random, Sighs, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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