So here’s an idea for a more useful game. Next time you go for a walk, pick a bag and fill it with trash, post a picture of it and nominate other friends to do so. We all have gloves and masks, you’ll be isolated so no excuses, but please respect the quarantine restrictions. Please feel free to participate without being nominated
-so wrote Enrico Bagnoli on his Facebook profile and he has motivated others to clean up their nearest areas. He went for a walk and took a large bag full of plastic rubbish and fishing waste on the edge of the ocean.
Hold the light, it’s inside and will be there day or night
– sang Bert Sommer at the Woodstock festival.
I have no idea how it happens but when I am really resigned and I can not see the sun in my life, even if the sun shines outside the window. When the darkness wants to grab me, then unexpectedly something blue gives me a kiss.
the cherry blossom
as if that is what
we were really waiting for.from the poem “Cranes lean in” by Imtia Dharker
I’ve always liked to observe the world around me, but since I slowed down more because of a pandemic, I start to see my local piece more clearly. Every morning when I go out to do exercises by the river, I meet up over a dozen species of birds in twenty minutes. Before I usually heard the loudly screaming gulls like in a tube.
One day, I saw a tall tree on the sunny grass. Its taproots were so spreading so I decided to sit on one of them, and I rested my back on a warm trunk. It was so comfortable like sitting in an armchair and I felt great. Then I thought to go back to this tree every day, which unexpectedly became my companion.
The door to my house is blue. In the hall, yellow sneakers would like to go somewhere, but no one puts them on. Only the orange rocks from the painting by Roderic O’Connor look at them.
He is a painter, his job is to paint. For himself, for painting, because that is his vocation, because he would not be able to not transform what he sees into the painting works.
– wrote Henri Perruchot in the book “Cézanne”.
This is one of my favourite publications. It made me want to go to Aix-de-Provence, a small town in France, where a boy was born, who at the age of five scribbled with charcoal on the walls of what surrounding him, and people were surprised how realistic it was.
I run along the river, again. The morning flows under my skin. The sun sketches relief in grey cells.