A certain tilt of the earth and the light is just right; there is a re-entry into the world of things, from time out of mind. An image of plumpness, of season's fall.
'Everything she wore was black. Flat black shoes, black stockings, black skirt, black cardigan, a black band in her hair.'
(---J. Berger)
"Of course I am a witch," she said triumphantly. "How else could it be?" There was gold on her shoulders and a steely look in her eyes. "But now I am tired. Let us rest a while".
There is a certain tilt of the earth and the light is just perfect.
~~~
There is a song that leads me home but whose words I have forgotten. Many an error follows from not knowing the name of things, or from the lack of courage to name it, the way one may shyly hide one's face before a mirror. And yet there is also the idea that that from that shyness will our true face flower and that the knot of the mirror will be undone, remain bright and naked-at least for a moment. Then everything flows. Time moves on and the image cools, becomes a memory. But if the red is true, then it may also become a promise, an anticipation of an outline of reality that can barely be conceived. Spring returns and the high windows are opened...everyone waits, and it is like a wound that has befallen every soul before. What spring brings is a memory of this distant shore, this ancient future that resides in the last room of the heart.
2 comments:
an excellent piece of work here. well done!
your words here remind me of Cheever. i am not fond of Cheever but your work is good. words are useful at times and not so also. see you again.
thank you for your comment, Hashmat! Was wondering: have you read Falconer or Cheever's journals?
Best,
K.
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