I'd wager large sums that the first god to have been born was a sun god. In Greek mythology, it is a title so coveted that there are two: Apollo, ostensibly, is god of the sun, though really, Helios is rightful heir. If I remember correctly, it's a difference in distinction; Titans versus Olympians - the young usurping the old. Speaking of the young, how about that Phaëton? When that fucking dumb-ass got hold of the chariot, we were quite literally almost toast. And thank god we put the kibosh on that Socrates guy. Can you imagine where the youth would be these days?
Kibosh. Did I have that in a restaurant yesterday? That can be spread on toast, right?
A breeze from an open window breathes dance unto all it touches. Outside, trees with Parkinson's revel in the movement. Inside, errant pages flutter like feathers, hanged tassels dangle from open blinds dancing to unheard rhythms. They possess a beautiful grace; beauty is to be moved, not moving. Torpor, eschewed and abhorred, is too often reproached. When idle, we are preyed upon by guilt and our ineluctable fretting, buzzing like the mechanical sound of a stuck insect, or the incessant marching of a child's wind-up toy. We are taught we should always make the most of our time, to always approach the day epileptically. But just try to sit still. Do nothing for 20 minutes - try and think of only one thing - just sit and still your mind. I'll tell you what'll happen: you won't be able to.
If I've learned one thing so far, it's that doing the thing more difficult often yields a more desirable result. So instinct suggests we should be still, bend with the breeze; be moved, not moving. To be still, defined here as focusing one's mind for a period of time, in silence, serves as a way to recharge - a kind of REM sleep for the soul. The effect of not indulging often enough can be seen in people who have abnegated this practice for a period of years. These people undergo a transformation where fear and dissatisfaction replace trust and love, and they become hateful and afraid; they become Republicans.
Yesterday I took a photo of an unattended old-school sports-car, and as I captured the shot I wanted, I heard a woman call out "can I help you?" When I looked up, I saw a middle-aged woman standing half on the sidewalk and half in the street on the opposing side of the road, as if ready to step toward me. Before I could reply, she said "that's my car." Realizing she was for some reason angry that I had admired her car, I calmly said "nope, it's just a nice car." Confused by my lack of escalation, caught up in the compliment, she had been disarmed and could only muster a paltry "I know, it is," paired with a half-hearted smile. I'd like to think that in that last moment she realized I wasn't some ruffian to be feared - despite the ominous beard - and perhaps she felt silly for how she reacted initially. I'd like to hope that she recognized her needless anger and fear, sharp like needles, and felt embarrassed for assuming I was photographing with nefarious intent. I think she achieved clarity though, by briefly slipping into a micro-sleep, where she paused and reflected, allowing trust restitution over fear.
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