he couldn't even know
the cats behind the bakery. the abandoned, out of tune piano with it’s wood splaying off in strips1, sitting pressed against the brick alley wall. the men outside the bar on main street, letting you bum a cigarette on a friday or saturday night. the cold cement under the yellow street lamps that shine you holy. feeling too familiar with a small town. suddenly realizing how much bigger you are than it. and knowing that as much as you need to get out, the second you do, it will never again be the same. balancing on this cold edge of things. but somehow, i walk around at night and still happen to find bits of wonder. sometimes i feel i am intimately connected with every single thing. the other night a man was playing that old piano. it was wholly beautiful, his playing; the untuned keys left no eerie effect on the tune as it floated atop the chilled night. i stood on the other end of the ally and listened. the man didn’t know i was there. i think that this is what made the moment so enchanting; this fact that i was an audience for this art, and yet the man was unaware that his art had any audience at all. i think that this is possibly the truest, the most meaningful art that one could create. the man couldn’t even know the art he was creating, the whole moment that was happening. he couldn’t even know… he couldn’t even know. this all fills me with a sense of promise, somehow.
the ‘wood splaying off in strips’ is possibly a figment of my imagination
obsessed w this.
Always here