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Thursday, August 2, 2012

It is the middle of the night
a time of quiet
when all are asleep
the place of repose
the place of replenish
the body working to repair and rebuild.

The moon light the sky
The air still, filled with the remnants of the heat of the day
All is quiet

Stillness echoes the tick
 the sound of the  clock marking the passage of time, it bounces off the walls singing the chorus, time, time, timmme
 the clack of the keyboard the base backup softening the echo  to a hum.

The cats are returned from the prowl, they have finished eating their fill for the fuel they need to keep them too in a place called sleep. They are resting, grooming each other, purring the pleasures of comfort, the security of indoors, each other, and the leather love seat where they found their favorite groove of repose.

The kitten  we call boots, still uncontrollable with his aggression, still learning his feline ways has just disturbed the peace.
He begins to jump and play at the game of attack, he rises straight up in the air like a Mexican jumping bean or a kid on a trampoline.
Gus, the elder of the two, wants no part of of the game, strolls away from the center of the stage and finds another resting spot, away from the bouncing baby kitten.

The August moon sits high, it lights the landscape, with soft shadows of dusk, the eyes can see afar and the night seems like day, letting the eyes view the hidden time, the hour of night when the creatures of the hour share the horizon as their domain, and no one interrupts. It is their arena, and they are free to roam to travel their territory to do whatever it is that they do. And there are no eyes on them, it is their tennis court, their hour on the field, their place and hour, and the moon lights the path and maybe changes their manner, on this moonlit night.

The stillness marks the surroundings, the fireplace more noticeable, it appears larger, more massive, closer. The fan overhead rolls with a silent whirr as the reflection of light spins with the shadows. The reflection of paddles softly wave images rolling in a circle on the ceiling.  The dancers are twice the measure they are reflecting the maidens tip toe with the sheer fabric anchored in their fingers, the ballet of the maidens of the fan waltzing in the night, they fill the roof of the room bringing the ceiling closer, beckoning, inviting the mind, to join with its steps in time.

Now the walls are calling.  Each painting animates, awake in the stillness, yawn, stretch, alive.

Can you hear the sound of the river by the cabin in the woods as it rushes to its destination down into the valley.  It is flowing at its pace with its partner, gravity, travelling, a journey. They have little notice of the scenery their interest only in the going, they, always together, must keep going.

Heard by the trees, those, the constant spectators, is the ripple and splash, ripple and splash, as they look to the snow capped mountain away in the distant memory of the rivers past its star of the start .  It could be day or night, there are clouds masking the time, anytime, day or night . If there is smoke coming from the cabin's chimney it is hidden by the rooms dim light, and I can not recall if there is a  fire or not. I shall wait for daylight.  There is too much magic to turn on the overhead lamp.

The queen, an African, reigning on leather with a background in earth tones holds court at another wall.  She is her alert usual self. She  reigns with no opinion, neither happy nor sad, regal in posture, elegant and noble.

Sitting below the queen, two small landscapes, with fir tree focal points, stars,  separate from the group, alone in their sphere. It is  always winter in these scenes, cold, even though there is no snow, always a chill.

Near the cabin in the woods is a chrysanthemum. A painting larger than the others, with the center of the mum filling the painting. A brownish beige with white reflections of petals.Look again at the shadows from the fan.  It is the only painting in the house that the housekeeper remarks about. She  crooks her neck and looks at it. First standing in one spot, then another. She comments about her eyes always seeing it in a different way. It seems to be growing on her.  She is not sure why.

An abstract pony rides alone on another wall. The neck stretches upward  raising the head with strong muscle, a stance that evokes ancient memories of wild mustangs free to roam, standing at the mountaintop, silhouettes  against the sky and the air and the ground.

There is a chalk of fruit in burnt oranges on a table that is anyones. It is near the larger still life, a classic of flowers in vase with splash of pink that brighten the panelling. Nestled between them  two abstracts of sombre colors, pictures that you stare at, not knowing why and what one is thinking, the out of mind experiences, the trips to other galaxies, comfortable besides the  bowl that has holes in it. Little craters of netting or a netting of craters, it would not be good to hold food, definitely a no to liquid, it would be lost forever. Would we have to use the brass door nob besides it. It was a gift, years ago, presented by a scant acquaintance. It is an official bank door knob from Wall Street. A large triangle with the door knob at the center. It is on the wall now to remind us to keep opening doors instead of closing them. It did not work rather well as a paperweight.

The two Japanese prints have villages, walkways and rooftops nestled on a mountainside. A dense population rendition of life in Japan. It is done with fine lines, and soft hints at color. A genteel view of a community of friends and neighbors. A tranquil scene,  of a peaceful place.

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