online: 8 june 2002

2 june 2002 sunday afternoon

15:10 Sunday afternoon in a garden reviewing notes and listening to Morton Feldman's piano and string quartet - one of the longest and quietest pieces I know of - apparently he said that having written it he could die happily.

Close to me are wasps visiting pink roses and further away a blackbird is eating something on the path. Trees and shrubs move slightly in the breeze as the music moves and changes from one cluster of notes to the next - it is meant to be played pianissimo throughout.

Black insects change direction inexplicably as they move over bluestone tiles in which I can see tiny whiteish cross-sections of prehistoric shells in the shapes of circles, curves, rectangles, rods and even comb-like structures - many resemble letters of an alphabet.

Summertime. A wasp enters a plastic bag that is open on the table among books by and about Spinoza, bottles, dishes and a spherical teapot - also the CD container, a cork... some of the seemingly innumerable utensils of life as we live it - unlike the birds and bees and such who also make and inhabit structures larger than themselves but do not fill them with useful or useless objects, let alone books and recordings of music...

Someone asks if I am hungry and I say yes though until I was asked I had no appetite. How many of our tastes are artificial?

A tiny insect flies close to my arm but comes no closer than about five centimetres - I guess it detects the shape and perhaps the temperature, perhaps smell, of a human and keeps a safe distance.

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© 2002 john chris jones

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