This reminds me of the paintings of Dennis Hoppper.The clear planes of color, the straight lines, the horizontals of the chair without end. Painting with a stop watch. The magic touch to immobilize and to bring to a standstill the things he paints. The fixation of things and people. The excommunication of movement. All things ready made, smooth, material, finished, unchangeable.
Just there, for ever. It is late in the afternoon, the sky is grey all over the place, the wide open place. The sky is cloudy, fully covered, too damp, we will not get a sunset. This chair on the beach, that ‘s it. Emptiness, okay. A concrete object made  abstract, on a lonely beach. Emptiness and a desolate evening. I do not dare to go there and sit in the chair  - thin as air. Soon it will rain again, Marcovaldo, you know.

I interrupt my walk, stay stand still on the trail, left and right underwood and trees. My legs stop, my breathing slows down, my eyes focus. So close to the eye, so dangerously near to the spider. Who is afraid of whom? First I see the green leaf, then the spider and finally ‘spider eats spider.’ An order of observation, an order of the visual, the logic of observation and the mind. That is how it works, without hesitation, spontaneously and surprised. Or the other way around. Curiosity that alerts, registers every movement, opens the eye. A scene of a murderous embrace, sneaky, cruel, tasty or just nature at work? The spider as victim and victor, the endless transformation, mutation, the law of survival and fate. The jungle, they call it and I think of wars and wars. The leaf is eaten and then the next and the next and the next spider.

A long walk today. We pass a hamlet and another hamlet all different and alike. In the last hamlet we see him. A family in and around the farm. Tall trees and a grass field in front. A man on a horse rides into the house, the stable where they live together. We greet, wave hands, we pass the farm. Some minutes later. I hear a sound, I hear a trot, turn around and there they are, the young guy and proudly his horse. You see the white blot on his nose, the dead trees in the back. My camera just in time. A living statue. No neighing. Admiration of vitality and daily courage. This is just his start in life. Oh young man. The beautiful years to come and the horses and the girls.

Be carefull, walk slowly and with prudence. It looks to be your trail you walk. Look at your feet, your big muddy shoes. They are invaders, the ants you do not see, will think. You cross their path, spoil their route, destroy their meticously walked out streets to the other side. Incessantly they march from right to left and back. Or they form two armies, do they build two ant hills? I do not know where the queen hides. It is not plausible there are two queen so close to each other. Hidden behind the leaves, the ants industriously cross the path, our path? Continue to look at them and you will be remunerated: they move slowly, well disciplined, the greenish leaves as their camouflage as long as they move at pace. Soldiers with a firm belief, a strong will, spurred by the scent of the queen. Being on their way to become a hill, food in the storage, child–ants, movers of leaves? Cleaners of the forest, the ground, trails and restless builders of hills. Recycling leaves and life.

My kingdom for a horse. Incredible. I do not believe my eyes. I zoom in and there is a horse that bends its neck forward, tastes and carefully sips salt water from the  almost flat sea. It explores its realm. A new kingdom is born. I feel like an intruder. Imagine. I tell somebody a story about a horse. Once upon a day a horse decides to go for walk and for a drink to the beach. It took some time, the horse however found the beach all by itself. It tasted the water and said this is exactly what I was after. And the horse established a kingdom and lived for ever along the beach. Nobody would believe it. Look. A small white surf in the back shows  a silent, windless afternoon.