This afternoon is beautiful again. There have been plenty of days like this, days where I woke up to rain and clouds, only to find the sun poking through fluffy clouds by late afternoon, the type of day that will find me rushing home for a quick ride on the bicycle before nighttime.

Sundry. Vacuous. Throwing words out there, trying to see what’ll stick to my fuzzy brain. Walking in the sun. Rays of green. Triangles of compassion. Settling for less. Circles and squares.

Pickup sticks

An artist dressed in purple holds a green-painted cylinder over a spotless, yellow bathroom rug. “Art,” he says, and pulls the mirrored cap off the cylinder. Purple pickup sticks fall from the cylinder and scatter across the yellow rug. The artist waves both hands by way of demonstration and bows his head. One portly man in the small crowd claps sardonically; others cover their mouths and whisper to their neighbors.

The artist bends down and picks up a stick without disturbing any of its neighbors. “Art,” the artist explains, “is fleeting.” Some in the crowd laugh, most shake their head. As the artist goes about his business of picking up the sticks one by one without disturbing the stick’s neighbors, most in the crowd lose interest and leave, walking toward other exhibits. A few remain and watch him move lightly around the round rug in search of the next stick.

His technique is flawless and he holds in his left hand a bundle of purple sticks. When only three sticks remain, the remaining people in the crowd clap softly. He finishes the final sticks and releases the sticks into the cylinder. “Art is cyclical,” he says and bows at his waist. He closes the cylinder and sits cross-legged in the center of the rug, his eyes closed and the green-painted cylinder resting in his lap. After five minutes, he stands up and holds the green-painted cylinder over the yellow rug. “Art,” he says.