A diversion: driving in the early morning, the only car on the road, the plain fields stretching out forever on both sides of me, and the sky, the grey-blue sky filling up the horizon, great and reflective, heavy with the night but ready to break into self-awareness at any moment, to awaken from its dream...

On the way back it was if the land had been redeemed by time and light. Brilliant light poured down and struck the white mist still hanging about at knee-height. In the distance this produced the effect of transforming everything into a blinding, pulsating flash of whiteness, strangely alluring- as if nothing existed there, or maybe it was that everything did.

Driving past it, or through it, saw a family huddled together on a donkey cart, their thin rickety bodies draped by the same honey-brown check shawls, their dark faces and hair covered in dust. Ridiculous to think of a photograph or a post at this time. You think you see people, but you don't really.

At the airport, a thin, slightly-balding middle-aged man stood in front of me. His hair slicked back, his stubble slightly grey, like an old dog's, his eyes soft and light, he wore a 1970's jacket with sheep's fur collars and lining. All very Jack Nicholson. He backed into me, looking upwards at the arrivals board. Nearly said, "what the fuck, watch your step uncle!" but let it pass. Zen training. Even though 'Jack' was up for a fight. A fat kid, like something out of Charlie and the chocolate factory, with striped shirt, puffy red cheeks and all, tried to inch his way ahead of us. "Kid, you ain't going nowhere," I thought, but nah, it's too early in the day for that. Your hands remain loose. Your defensiveness falls away. And then 'Jack' lets him go in front of us, turns back to me and smiles, nods. Yeah, okay, go on then.

~~~

I didn't try to communicate any kind of philosophy since I am not a philosopher. I am a photographer. That's it.
---Saul Leiter.

"We do better to slide over the world a bit lightly and on the surface." Through his discovery of sliding and gliding, he lost much of his fear, and at the same time acquired a new sense of his life.'
--from Bakewell on Montaigne.