I envy sometimes that intense aimlessless of children, which prompts them, on a sunny and windless day, to overturn a bucket of chalk, find the family mallet, and experiment with the chalk’s friability. Just because one can draw or write with chalk doesn’t mean that one must only draw or write.
A person could, for example, pound it to bits. Especially the blue ones.
I came across the chalk and mallet tableau while walking with Jimmy in a neighborhood we don’t live in, although it’s still nearby. The children, whoever they are, had left all their playthings strewn on a little front lawn, the steps, the walkway. It seemed as though they would come back to them; the action was suspended, not completed.
Little artists, they were briefly interrupted from testing their material.
(Or so I want to think.)