The day was fine. It sweat-motivated people driving them indoors to escape the head pounding heat or out to the water’s edge under the trees. I walked along the park tonight with sun laying on the surface of the lake as if a brush of yellow had been pulled along the surface. People were haloed and some hair moving in the small breeze was backlit to a saturated colour. Shadows crept into the skin folds: the inside of a bent arm, the rolls of fat and skin across the belly. The light caught in the brim of hats.

The impressionist were drawn to tableaus like these of people specifically assuming a shape while the last surviving light grabs onto all the possible edges trying not to slip away. For a moment the setting sun is held in place until it lowers into mere smudges of color in the torn bits of clouds floating overhead. It is as if in that one moment the world takes a photograph of itself, a memory of the captured day.

Overhead a seagull with knife-like wings cuts the early moon in half. It is cycling like the seasons shift, like life shifts from full to waning to non-presence. At times, a fingernail clipping of moon memory becomes pinned to the sky. And then the moon begins again to fill up its expectant shape.

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But tonight the moon was severed, in between its possibilities. The sun hung low not yet entirely set. The air was saturated with the 35-degree heat like a presence. Only a small wind offered relief. Everything supporting the theatre of life was set upon the grassy park. It was a scene in COVID time. An artificial, staged, constructed reality surrounding us.

The closing moment of the day is like all moments in our current lives. It is now and not yet. We live with messages of who has died and how many are in a science fiction coma with bodies invaded by machines. They hang between worlds not alive and not yet dead.

The young ignore the warnings. Some deny the looming presence and refuse to don a mask from their righteous indignation at not being seen. They float as a planet in the centre of their own constructed universe.

Tonight, the seagull flew low over my head and chopped the moon in two. I walked along the waterfront separate, distant like a spirit being but not dead. My shadow was in front of me.

Journal for July 20th:

As I sit under a tree and watch two swallows flit from branch to branch it occurs to me, I have no ideas how birds have sex. How do eggs suddenly appear in a nest? If I go to youtube to voyeuristically watch birds mating should I then clear my browser history in case of my untimely death? My reputation for puritanical behaviour must remain unbesmirched.

I have so many questions about existence, perception, parallel lives, self-talk, illusion and physics. The idea of ideas, the concepts of concepts are like mirrors reflecting infinitely upon one another. They are intellectual echos in my hollowed out mind. There is so much I don’t know. I call out in my ignorance and wait for my own voice to bounce back.

Inquiries come to me unbidden: what are the 12 dimensions and is it time to change my toilet seat?

Later,  I invite a woman walking past my house with her dog to unlatch the gate and come in to smell the 6-foot tall lilies in my central raised like a grave garden. I stop working in order to watch her face. I watch the sweetness melt her. Her shoulders release and fall down into place. She is transported, her face is transported and I, in turn, am transported by witnessing her pleasure.

The mail carrier comes to my door the same day. I quickly put on my mask out of courtesy for her, grab a freshly cut sachet of lavender. Out the door again, I say, “When you feel anger or anxious or are frightened of people, this is your negative emotion eraser. It will clear the energy that people send to you or you are creating that can make you feel down.” She steps forward and takes the net bag, holds it to her face and closes her eyes. Smiling now, she says, “I needed this.”
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Journal July 27th.

I was in the yard when the mail carrier arrived, She had the lavender tied to her bag strap… directly under her face. She told me, “I wear it every day. I smell it all the time. I take it off and put it on my desk when I work there. It makes me happy.”

I am puzzled by so many things, but when my inner voice tells me to do something to help another person, I always listen. I always deliver the action I am asked to take. Some things are simple and dead clear.

As the days elapse on the wide floating space of COVID spreading out as far as the mind’s eye can see, there are clear moments of beauty.