The glance is a snapshot of the world.
In a split second, you can’t observe anything, but everything becomes engrained in your memory. Moving cars, the occasional passer-by in the wee hours of the morning. Or how darkness falls. How the faint traces of a sunset give way to complete darkness. How alleys and roads are lit with the soft glow of street lamps.
It’s bad synecdoche: the beginning and the end, the past and the present, moving from one place to another. The moment cannot be captured.
Those split seconds become somewhat like photographs in my mind. Like a laundry list, a catalog.
Billboards, birds, boxes.
The spotlight on the dolls, the stickers on the Stratocasters.
A concrete nail, a mallet, a giant wooden box.
Two shadows are on the road.
If glances tell stories, I do not know. Glances defy past and present. Most of all, they defy words. The moment that cannot be captured, but remembered: the now, what’s today, if only because there’s always that something incomprehensible and magical found in between.