Promenade Projection

For you to fully unders­tand this scene and situa­tion, here are the follo­wing desc­rip­tio­nal words. Alone. Warm. Subur­bia. Mid­gets. Walk. So here I am bet­ween two rows of hou­ses on a wan­der down a path bet­ween two plains of grass, going nowhere, admi­ring the day. Think of a plea­sant gar­den fresh air smell and hold it. You should ima­gine this as if you see through my eyes. My eyes are your eyes. (Fancy going into a hyp­no­sis ses­sion? Hop like a bunny my dear).Your ima­gi­na­tion sees what I see. Think of it as a pos­si­ble form of astral pro­jec­tion. I con­trol where we shall look together. You look where I look. I shall empha­size the things I see that are impor­tant. You shall get caught up on the non­sense and miss the point. I walk at a brisk pace with little “bop­ping”. During the pro­cess of this encoun­ter I will not trip, fall or stum­ble; so do not fear for gra­zed knees. If you would like, you can ima­gine a surreal ambient atmosphere pro­vi­ded by a rhyth­mic and mys­ti­cal com­po­si­tion. If you feel that it will add depth. Movies without music wouldn’t be worth watching.

This is the part that feels like waking up, I am ope­ning my eyes. Here we are on the path. We are mid­way and a white pic­ket fence lies to the left of us, it’s not a clean fence and the shrub­bery will have drow­ned it in a cou­ple of months if the cli­mate pur­sues. It’s part of a gar­den which is part of a house which is part of a terrace along which we will tra­vel. To our right beyond the grass is a short two foot high wall which approaches us and cuts off the grass at an acute angle. It’s made of that dark red cera­mic which always looks old and shoddy. Atop are wood chips and a bush, I’m not bota­ni­cally min­ded so I have no idea of its com­mon name or its luxu­rious Latin one. It has pur­ple flo­wers and long dark lea­ves and there is lots of it. Before we set off, I am going to draw your atten­tion to what lies at our feet. I’m squat­ting now. Here we have a trail of ants, they are wor­ker ants, slave ants, silky ants. These are the labo­rious unlucky ones that do not fly and impreg­nate at great heights. We are follo­wing one of the sma­ller ants as it strug­gles across the harsh conc­rete desert. Watch as it nego­tia­tes each small boul­der, cre­vasse and cliff. See how it over­co­mes each pro­blem with ease, take note of the speed it tra­vels at, its path and the pur­pose.
And our friend is now gone; into the subur­ban ever­gla­des. May his dreams come true. We are lea­ving now, stand straight and place one foot for­ward. The jour­ney has begun. Mind the ants and ima­gine them stop­ping to let you past, taking heed of your soul as it falls. I hope you do not suf­fer from motion sickness.

We are now making our way along the desert. If we turn our heads left we can see into the win­dows of the terrace. Some cot­ton cur­tains and deco­ra­tive cand­les are our high­lights. To our right we are wary of the bum­ble bee that nearly gets caught up in a well pla­ced web. Past a row of shrubs and the end of the wall out of the guar­ded pas­sage and up the hill towards the cres­cent junc­tion. Some ever­greens brush our arm as we walk and the conc­rete has evol­ved to tar­mac. In the movies, you are given a split second of terror. A loud bang, a sud­den appea­rance. A jump and a brief inte­rrup­tion in pulse. Now some ins­tant relief and an inex­pli­ca­ble feel good fee­ling. There’s a par­ked van ahead of us and a small peb­bled drive way with an old cor­vette. We are exa­mi­ning it’s fine leather inte­rior and are dis­gus­ted by it’s ghastly pur­ple paint­work. The wheels have a nega­tive off­set and accor­dingly suit the colour. We judge and exa­mine from the pave­ment the con­ver­ti­ble abi­lity and con­si­der rea­son for such costly tra­ve­ling bliss. Jump. Split terror second. If this were a movie you would be expec­ting your relief about now. Ins­tead we feel our heart vigou­rously pum­ping, our brain con­si­de­ring con­se­quence and cir­cums­tance. Blood rushing and remem­ber to breathe. My inte­rest in cars and your eclec­tic music lulled our sen­ses and we were nearly ready for those pearly gates. Still no relief, ins­tead a self curse and disas­trous thoughts of what could have been without Lady Luck. This time we safely cross the road, away from the par­ked van.

Onwards and upwards, con­ti­nuing our course in no par­ti­cu­lar direc­tion. Behind the tree line in front of us is an old rail­way where they used to carry coal to and fro. It’s aban­do­ned now with excep­tion of the rab­bits. I know this because a friend of a friend did an article for a news­pa­per. We have now bro­ken free of terrace lines. On our right are detached hou­ses with small cared for gar­dens and to our left is a main road and an unu­sed bus shel­ter. Its pro­tec­ted by a hove­ring sha­dow from the neigh­bou­ring flora and fauna.We take this route at a slo­wer pace, it being up hill and all. This time we watch the birds. I am neither bota­ni­cal or ornitho­lo­gi­cal. So I can­not be pre­cise about the birds, Im gues­sing they were your regu­lar spa­rrow, black­bird and mag­pie. I must apo­lo­gise to those who wish to know more about such flying won­ders, but this is neither the time nor the place, sun chap­ped shoul­ders are not desi­red. I am follo­wing the tra­jec­tory of a cer­tain spa­rrow, swoo­ping at eye level, gli­ding up into free air space and back down again. Watch how it pau­ses then dives, view it’s pride and feel the majes­tic pre­sence. Clear the mid­gets, clear the mid­gets. Per­mis­sion gran­ted, you are clear for lan­ding. As it rises for its final approach it cros­ses the sun and we lose it in the glare.