I was few Blogs away behind, writing and editing old posts, when the chime of the prompt post: Object, dinged. And, I had no time, neither to catch up with the past prompts, nor to think about it. During the break, I had a tiny moment to read a quote of the day from Mr. Alec Lee-Nevela, wich actually it fell à propos: how does new come into being?
At that moment I had no answer for the question. It might be uplifting as it seamed at first but it wouldn’t be nifty as . Yet, I had to wait until I went back home. Usually_ I conceive a passion for classical music, more particularly for Puccini, and for watercolor panting; an old hobby, a guilty pleasure that I affectionate for longtime. For that, I mean the panting, I have gathered over time, a multitude of objects, that I used for textures, lights, and specific stokes, all weird-looking tools as well, as one might think, at first glance.
So, I read the prompt and looked around for a singular trove; from a cristal-glass bucket that used to be for cooling a bottle of champagne, that found in garage-sale, which I use it ,instead, as bowl full of water to paint and wash in my watercolor brushes ; to an expensive Siberian Blue squirrel hair-quill that I got in Christmas – my wish, as a gift from my daughter. Then, I was lost in contemplation, in front of a cut-n’ past panel of Quotes of the day, that I pined au fil- temps, while listing to ” Caruso”_Puccini, a vinyl. Then, the train of thoughts made it way, hill and dale, through a landscape of weirdness and familiar things. I found myself thinking; an object, but which is, it don’t mean a thing, so I shuddered to some, to turn my eyes to stop on a zen drawing, to look to a timepiece, a family heirloom lunging aside , in a last forlorn attempt. Hours I read a book about Zen in the Japanese culture, by Daisetz Suzuki, it said about the place of objects in meditation, like a hanging scroll into an alcove, with a theme carefully chosen by the host, with a bamboo plant pined aside. There is a story also, about a broken caldron, yielded and bought a second time by a master of tea ceremony, after he sold to an aficionado merchant, this is to say.
I had the laptop on my lap and a bunch of ideas jostling in my head, and I was “itching for words”, in the same way , the Poet Stevenson was; I want to express them in words, suddenly I googled the word timepiece and got the image above; it resumed a lump of symbols, and debris that we call meanings, in a word: Object