the drowned, reflected world

They are a long inspection of a drowned, reflected world, in which no sky is visible except by reflection; the water fills the whole frame. ..In these paintings, emptiness matters as much as fullness, and reflections have the weight of things. ..to conjure up the negated object, with the help of allusive and always indirect words, which constantly efface themselves in a complementary silence, which involves an undertaking which comes close to the act of creation.

What showed on its surface, the clouds and lily pads and cat's-paws of wind, the dark patches of reflected foliage.the abysses of dark blue and the opaline shimmer of light from the sky, were all compressed together in a shallow space, a skin, like the space of painting . The willows touched it like brushes . No foreground, no background; instead, a web of connections


The same. The same.
then once, in a flash,
fresh ground,...
black, grey, green, and blue
water, stone, grass and sky
and each unique set stone!

---August 11th, 2008.

(K. Clark on Monet, and R. Lowell)


.[b]efore the metal shaving mirrors
and see the shaky future grow familiar
We are all old-timers
each of us holds a locked razor...
---Lowell

Cage [ I ].
I, that I b.

~~~

Restless night. At 1 (and then again at 3) woken up by some incredibly loud music. A mix between bhangra and Prince, I thought to myself, half awake. Also, incredibly good, though infuriating. Knew I would never hear that tune again, or know what it was. Let it go.

Still in the twilight zone, wondered what Montaigne would have done. No, no use, letting it wash over as if I wasn't concerned, or thinking that it would eventually come to an end, didn't work.

H woke up at 4 and then R at 5. Early morning lecture so I had to wake up at 6 anyway. 45 minutes to find some kind of peace, some sort of space that would carry me through the day...then, out of the blue, I was suddenly at City airport, getting ready for one of those trips within a trip (like a dream within a dream). I'd forgotten my book, but wasn't overly concerned for some odd reason. And then, amongst the ruins, down a steep incline, there was this beautiful singing tree, deeply familiar, autumn leaves shimmering in the late afternoon light, the light in August caught, concentrated, reflected, drowned.