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Paloma’s Light Journal: May 8th

Given the irascibility of watercolor—how it assumes the inexactitude of commodities like frustration and woman at window, it cannot be surprising that beneath every canvas there is a pond that is, in a word, swift.

There is a street in Tagaytay. Villagers lift their children on their shoulders. The children clap their hands. The sound of clapping echoes through the street in Tagaytay. Echoes through the porcelain cup she holds standing by the window.

If there is time for deliberation, then there will be time for epiphany. Grains of sand clattering on the floor. Fluttering movement—a hand reaching for a hot supper, a lucid wind chime. There is a black livingroom—figures in silhouette. What they do not say is written in a red book where a violinist simultaneously composes intermezzos made of grass, of cyclical action.

Going to the movies alone. Saying to the ticket-lady, “one please…” is a catharsis that is a gold leaf. Beating of the drum bleeds for the rarest time. It occurred to him that her braid was his only friendship. A man walking down a crowded street. He’s looking into headlights that close his eyes, prepare him for walking down a crowded street.

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