In the days that followed, Jasper Gwyn tried to stay calm, and in the attempt to find a salve for the crises, which were becoming more and more frequent, he relied on an exercise that he recalled seeing in a film. It consisted of living slowly, concentrating on every single gesture. As a rule it might seem rather vague, but Jasper Gwyn had a way of observing it that made it surprisingly concrete. So when he put on his shoes he looked at them first, assessing their fine lightness and appreciating the softness of the leather. As he laced them he avoided lapsing into an automatic action and examined in detail the splendid movement of his fingers, with a rounded gesture whose assurance he admired. Then he stood up, and at the first steps he made sure to register the solid grip of the shoe on the instep. In the same way, he concentrated on noises that are usually taken for granted, hearing again the click of a lock, the hoarseness of tape, or the faintest clatter of hinges. Much time was given to registering colors, even when the object had no usefulness, and in particular he was careful to admire the random palettes produced by the placement of things—whether it was the inside of a drawer, or the area of a parking lot. Often he counted the objects he came across—steps, streetlights, shouts—and with his fingers he checked surfaces, rediscovering the infinite range between rough and smooth. He stopped to look at shadows on the ground. He felt every coin between his fingers.
All this gave a luxurious rhythm to his daily movements, like those of an actor, or an African animal. Others seemed to recognize in his elegant slowness the natural tempo of things; and in the precision of his gestures a dominion over objects that most had forgotten returned to the surface. Jasper Gwyn wasn’t even aware of it, and yet it was very clear to him that that meticulous pacing restored to him some solidity—that center of gravity which had evidently failed.