There’s something I’ve been wanting to convey, but I don’t seem to be doing it. I’ve looked at what I’ve written in the last two days. I agree with the facts and the way I’ve presented them in my two previous posts. I won’t argue with that. As I wrote, I cared about being accurate, circumscribed to the phases of my history as I think I experienced them. I tried to resist the temptation of looking at the past only from the point-of-view of affects, hoping for a balanced tone. A perspective made of more than one attempts at understanding events.
Yet, something’s missing. Like autumn leaves bound to fall, sentences eventually land on my screen. Not by choice, but because it is that time of the year.
On their way down to the text, they signify that their end is nearby, already started. They cascade to the ground where they’ll make a carpet of words to cover and hide the page and the soil. They’ll dress the shape of the earth, a blanket on the shoulders of matter.
Words descend, they don’t fly. They are the ephemeral part of the tree, the part able to detach, disconnect itself and tumble. Parts that can only have one direction: down. Leaves and words, piling up at our feet, able to disguise the land we must walk on. Obscuring a path maybe, or hiding the road from our view, covering landmarks, erasing footsteps. Even changing the landscape beyond recognition.
I can no more prevent words from separating themselves from their matrix or from falling, than the leaves of a tree can be stopped from throwing themselves downward.
As I look at the words now resting on the ground my page is, I wonder what’s under. What have I masked a leaf at a time? The panorama has changed. Amalgams of colored, textured words like an autumn tapestry concealing the territory that supports them. And I ask myself, what’s beneath? What could be rotting there, unseen? What is it that can decompose in the cold and damp darkness created by hundreds, thousands of fallen words? Would there be a stench, would I reach a gluey substrate if I shoveled my way beneath clusters of verbs and dead foliage? What kind of life form would be growing there, rising from the disintegration of flat, thin organic structures? From the quiet veins running through a collection of dead epidermis laid down, waiting to decay?
Once the words fall, their stem ruptured, loose, what other meanings appear, what kind of existence can develop from the molder, something the leaves do not control, do not even foresee?
What is it that I do not perceive and that could be happening below the surface of residues?
The writing stretches throughout the forest. Trees and branches depossessed of their most striking attributes, a quilt filled with words and on which I advance, walking on a duvet of fallen leaves, hearing as my promenade lasts the sounds, vowels and consonants, of crushed plant fragments marking my steps. Always deeper into shivering woods. The words carrying me, departed leaves finally put to rest as a floor for wanderings, cloaking the routes.
Peeling the many coats of leaves that cover the grounds of language, I must find what it is that germinates in the rich and humid murkiness created by what has left me, and has sank below myself.
Laolao
Yet, something’s missing. Like autumn leaves bound to fall, sentences eventually land on my screen. Not by choice, but because it is that time of the year.
On their way down to the text, they signify that their end is nearby, already started. They cascade to the ground where they’ll make a carpet of words to cover and hide the page and the soil. They’ll dress the shape of the earth, a blanket on the shoulders of matter.
Words descend, they don’t fly. They are the ephemeral part of the tree, the part able to detach, disconnect itself and tumble. Parts that can only have one direction: down. Leaves and words, piling up at our feet, able to disguise the land we must walk on. Obscuring a path maybe, or hiding the road from our view, covering landmarks, erasing footsteps. Even changing the landscape beyond recognition.
I can no more prevent words from separating themselves from their matrix or from falling, than the leaves of a tree can be stopped from throwing themselves downward.
As I look at the words now resting on the ground my page is, I wonder what’s under. What have I masked a leaf at a time? The panorama has changed. Amalgams of colored, textured words like an autumn tapestry concealing the territory that supports them. And I ask myself, what’s beneath? What could be rotting there, unseen? What is it that can decompose in the cold and damp darkness created by hundreds, thousands of fallen words? Would there be a stench, would I reach a gluey substrate if I shoveled my way beneath clusters of verbs and dead foliage? What kind of life form would be growing there, rising from the disintegration of flat, thin organic structures? From the quiet veins running through a collection of dead epidermis laid down, waiting to decay?
Once the words fall, their stem ruptured, loose, what other meanings appear, what kind of existence can develop from the molder, something the leaves do not control, do not even foresee?
What is it that I do not perceive and that could be happening below the surface of residues?
The writing stretches throughout the forest. Trees and branches depossessed of their most striking attributes, a quilt filled with words and on which I advance, walking on a duvet of fallen leaves, hearing as my promenade lasts the sounds, vowels and consonants, of crushed plant fragments marking my steps. Always deeper into shivering woods. The words carrying me, departed leaves finally put to rest as a floor for wanderings, cloaking the routes.
Peeling the many coats of leaves that cover the grounds of language, I must find what it is that germinates in the rich and humid murkiness created by what has left me, and has sank below myself.
Laolao
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
photo+album).jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment