Often I have written of moments of blitz, the artistic condition that smites the distant eye and traps the artist between observance and feeling. But blitzfast as these moments are, they perhaps are born of an impatience, a ceaseless wish for something to happen.
I sit outside, it is past midnight, the moon waxes over ridges and a river roars close by. When will they come? I can't sit here all night! When does the next thing happen? I could be inside with the others watching a movie, but the thought of sitting still amongst others...it's...they...are too slow for my wandering mind. Outside alone I can sit still, but still my mind wanders rash over the land and sky, over the roar of the river and the wind...looking for something happening.
Always rushing ahead of time to find the next moment, a moment to savor...why so anxious for these other moments, these nonblitz moments, to end?
I'll never have this moment again and yet in my anxiousness I run inside to write about why I rush ahead to moments that aren't yet, that happen fast and die quickly, rather than finding some other sense, one that langors in the moment that lasts, that lasts quietly and slowly. I agonise over the minutes that slug by, when here--here is a moment that lasts, one one can savor with all senses; I mourn the death of the moment of blitz, and pay no heed to the opportunity of a moment that seems it may never end.