Sadhus of some modern place, plaster of paris museums like a herbie hancock rockit head future funk sculpture at the mixture of everything like so much gray paint. A sadhu beholding a pool of combined exertions, what rolls off, drips down. Sadhus dancing hands in twilight ecstasy to mysterious smokey saxophones and undulating snake drums, every turn defined by cymbal clash and smoke. Serenity, letting it wash with only incidental thought dripping like that muddy paint. Serenity, an actual thing.
Or Satie, Satie — not only Sadhu — too, like the balance of a posable wooden art manikin sitting Pinnochio on some artist’s table, the artist in a live-in studio with paint-splattered wood or concrete floors, and large windows, large windows with bright gray light and saturation of the senses. Or maybe the artist with a clay chisel, unmuddying mud.
Meanwhile mountain wisdom prayer flags open sky to contain the incidental warble of a bird of prey. And here, a robin forces keen excitement, a yearning for the change to warm weather like the pang of a bandaid pulled off winter to get to summer.
Indulgences for children, too… remembering indulgences like school songs and watercolor.
~ Lady