There are some days on which I have absolutely no intention of blogging. My mind dessicated, dry and wrung out like an old, disintegrating sponge, the words are simply no longer there. They have abandoned the empty husk which once housed them and have relocated elsewhere, out of my reach and away from the harsh, disapproving gaze of the blinking cursor on my monitor.
This was to be one such day and, indeed, it was until I came across this piece, entitled Fluid, by Clair Morgan. Something about it stuck with me and I kept coming back to it; staring at it. I thought about it on my way home. It’s hard for me to pinpoint just exactly what draws me to it. I suppose it’s the precision of the entire affair. The way the strawberries are hung in neat rows except for those that perfectly follow the trajectory of the fallen crow. The arrangement of the crow itself caught at the point of impact; and the carefully squashed strawberries that accompany its terminus. All these, working in concert create a startling sense of movement; of a moment frozen perfectly in time.