Some Fragments

Monet - Coquelicots

Walking home on Wednesday night I called New York beautiful for the first time in quite a while. During the day the combination of wind and constant traffic had scattered petals from the cherry trees all across the sidewalks and roads. Each curb had its own pink drift of petals and it felt as though I were walking home through the aftermath of a carnival. The sun was setting across the park and the newly green trees were silhouetted against a delicately orange sky.

On Thursday I found my rhythm with Proust. Turns out, the narrator was also feeling as I had been feeling--disconnected and discontent with his ability to intereact and observe.

He describes this:

"Trees," I thought, "you no longer have anything to say to me. My heart has grown cold and no longer hears you. I am in the midst of nature. Well, it is with indifference, with boredom that my eyes register the line which separates your radiant foreheads from your shadowy trunks. If I ever thought of myself as a poet, I know now that I am not one. Perhaps in the new, the so dessicated part of my life which is about to begin, human beings may yet inspire in me what nature can no longer say. But the years in which I might have been able to sing her praise will never return."

But in a transcendent and mysterious moment, his temporal self is freed and he roams through his memories as a greater being, connecting past with present and similar with different. He describes this as being able to apprehend "a fragment of time in the pure state" Something only an "extra-temporal" being is capable of--the complete and succesful identification of past with present.

...the power to make me rediscover days that were long past, the Time that was Lost.

I have a feeling that process will be the great work of my life.