Yesterday Came Suddenly The past often washes up on the shore, leaving sand under your tongue. Abrupt flashes of realisations cease before we can catch them. Melancholy, grief, pain, joy, and small acts of love when felt with intensity must root themselves deep within us as if memories could be a place. They simply wait there, like a trinket that fell behind the drawer only to be discovered by surprise. I find these transient moments of being extremely gratifying but people actually remember very little. Fleeting memories make us wonder about the strangeness of the everyday, the ordinary that tugs itself under the visible. The eye often settles on what is beautiful and/or comprehensible, turning away from things that appear mundane, blurry, impenetrable, or even intimidating. There occur moments that are mysteriously ordinary but are still remembered, like my grandfather’s erratic snores that punctuated a good night’s sleep. These thoughts start pollinating as we read–“Interpretation takes the sensory experience of the work of art for granted, and proceeds from there… What is important now is to recover our senses. We must learn to see more, to hear more, to feel more”, demands Susan Sontag. Her bold reclamation for assessing art insists on digressing from arriving at meaning or content, in favour of revealing the sensuous surface of art–”to show how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means.”