Thursday, January 5, 2017
Out here, I can forget whereness and whenness. What was and what will be are somewhere far away and so the deity of January reminds me of them. I want to freeze and be still: here in the winter dereliction I can gaze through broken frames and remember: a doorway opens inward, but outward as well. Free of wood and glass and the worlds once contained, it becomes the canvas for nostos tints, the colors of ultramarine, lacrimae rerum, and weird sororal shadows.
Out here, the only plot is perhaps a rabbit and an owl; the old story arc is the same regardless of who it is. The rabbit races through the frame and escapes, but later—in dark and dénouement—does it taste the fear and trembling in its own shit? Does it peak at the moon in the darkness of two o'clock and feel the epiphany of death that sees us with her shining eyes and flies on silent wings?
Is a painting of a rabbit and an owl, whether in my mind, this page, or elsewhere a frozen point in time? Because it does not move, it is cold. The tautology reverses effortlessly because it does not really move. It is cold comfort in January.
(Part of the Ramble Calendar)