On my second voyage to the Fields Where Nothing Happens it seemed to be late afternoon; although the sun could not be seen, the sky shone golden behind ominous, errant storm clouds. I ascended a steep hill covered in tall grass which undulated in a cool, damp breeze smelling of lavender and rain. Ahead of me, at the crest of the hillock, something, or things, were in motion, but I was too far away to identify its source. Just as I reached the top of the hill I saw a whirling column of what appeared to be tiles of various shapes and sizes, each containing a dazzling array of patterns and colors which also moved about within; but as I approached for a closer look, the tiles began to break apart into smaller tiles, separate from the group, and drift away on the breeze. As each tile disengaged from the cyclonic assemblage, the colors within became drab and ceased to move about. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness. But as tears ran down my face, a presence originating from the remaining gyre of tiles imposed itself upon my consciousness in the most brilliant and musical way, admonishing me against grieving.
This is the way of all things, and here more than anywhere, it said to my mind.
Do not sorrow for inevitable transience. As the last tiles floated away I was hit with an ecstatic shockwave of joy, and the sky's golden light intensified to an almost unbearable brilliance...
6x14"
