The Golden Hour

Eternal Departure and Return

The Golden Hour travels around the planet. It is the hour before sunrise and the hour before sunset. It is the closing curtain here—and the actors preparing to come on stage there. Light closing shop in one place—and opening for business in another. The preparation for rest—and the stirring awake.

It seems not long ago that this day arrived. The cups of coffee poured. The shirts put on, the pants the skirts the socks and shoes. Jewelry. Teeth brushed. Hair combed and hats, because it’s getting cool. There were breakfasts, eggs and toast and oatmeal and yogurt with fruit. Maybe cold pizza. A stampede out doors and down the stairs and elevators, towards the buses and cars and subways and walking. Footprints everywhere.

Almost 8 billion variations. Walking somewhere. Sitting somewhere. Being born or dying somewhere. Sleeping, eating and fucking somewhere. Multitudes.

A dental cavity was filled. A flat tire on a bicycle. Walking a child to school. A bungy cord jump. Feet pedicured. The old man afraid to fly. Police lights spotted in a rear-view mirror. Liquor store crowded. Cheese melted on bread. Violin string snapped during a performance. Password entered. Winding a wrist watch. Suicide by hanging. Page 68 reached in the book. Yellow added to the abstract expressionist canvas. Papers filed. Practicing vocal scales in the courtyard. Changing hotel sheets. Laurel & Hardy seen dancing again. Faucet dripped. An airplane overhead. Doorbell ringing. A row of street lights turning green. Tapping foot during job interview. A new blade in the shaver. Social media visit. Juggling lemons. Heavy head resting in hands. Needle moves in vinyl grooves playing 192-year-old Schubert. Seagull splatters lapel. Code written for a new app. Scissors cut out magazine cat for a collage. The pawn moves forward two squares. An apology. Learning Spanish before the trip. Accidentally deleted. National Geographic open to an article on pandemics. A morning glory blooms. Panhandler plea. Another spam phone call. Floor squeaks underfoot. Ginko tree stench. Sign of the cross in front of a church. Sneezing. Soup kitchen opened at ten. An orgasm upstairs. Ze told hir how things change. The burglar was captured on surveillance cameras. Twenty pushups. Cigarette butt extinguished with shoe. Photo of overpass taken with iPhone. Irritated at being late. Maple tree red yellow orange. Geese in a V.
Stop sign.

[Aside: there are 400 trees for each human—that’s 3 trillion on the planet—but their sense of all the cycles and activity are dispersed over a much longer term of time, maybe golden months.]

And here it is already, the day wrapping itself up in memories to go on the shelf with all the others. A trail of cars as far as the eye can see towards the sunset. Trains and ferries being boarded and exited. Groceries purchased. Vegetable and fruits originating in places where it’s already tomorrow. Shoes removed. Dinner cooked. Pizza again? Screens engaged. Was that another Golden Hour?

© AleXander Hirka 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Read RemingtonWrite’s version here:

In August 2020, I set myself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image was that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to my Mom and the concept was Time.
In September 2020, the
Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe.

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