Previous Post
Temps perdu
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
The light of summer, especially in the evening, calls up memories: some so far back they are barely discernible through the fog of time. Just feelings, atmospheres. Being called in by my mother one summer night after playing out with my friends - Shawbury, the grass had been cut, we are playing with the remnants, making houses, using clumps as rounder stops. The sweet smell of the grass, and the cool evening air, and my mother's voice. It's here that somehow time begins, time as a process that will lead to a finish point. The sense of your own mortality hits early but you don't know that's what it is. It's a sad happiness, a nostalgia for a past you haven't created yet, but you are suddenly aware of it all passing, passing. You want to stay out forever playing in the grass. You know you can't. You have to go in, to the quiet house.


6:21 AM  

Post a Comment
<< Home