Something new, something different about looking at a photograph or an especially moving piece, conjuncted with the flobbery feeling of having noodly legs for now.
It’s like jealousy mixed with pleasure that, if I didn’t create something this wonderful, at least somebody did; at least it exists now. There is the sense of a released burden.
The way those lovers cling to one another alone together inspecting a Monet (you know how big those can get) and the way they are framed by the second or third artist.
The heavy-hanging bicycle, the crooked and dead branch stark and smart in the air, the thoughts of a favorite square inch of a lover’s skin, the abandoned roller coaster.
A cracked stair on a stoop, cracked by a bullet carelessly fired that killed a young girl who was, at the time, furious with her mother over something silly.
A rusty spot on the wrought-iron guardrail around which paint is bubbling because of the oxidization where the paint was cracked when a man bumped into it with his keys.
Makes you want to cry and to scream and to sit still and never move and never be looked at and looked at and go find things and move and dance and be free.