Cloud and chimera

Pensées hybrides

Fiction


Words and Whispers

MOTHER OF ALL ICE

(Reading a poem, going for a drive in the imagination, riding the wave of memory)

Light shadows, harsh light, as if from some unknown stage
Unusual light, never seen before, ghostly and ghastly
Spelling out some oracle that cannot be deciphered
No matter how hard we try
How hard we peer through the puzzling texture around us, in the sky and on the ground
Shroud or cover, mist or veil, fog or fine snow
In between-ness of Nature’s postures
Twilight of human reasoning and endurance.

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Préhistoires

Je veux les lumières des anciens feux et l’obscurité solitaire de la nuit.
La marche infinie vers un monde que tous ignorent, la fuite au-delà de tout, le silence et la peur.
Je veux les jours passés à acculer la bête effrayante et la joie du succès.
Je veux la violence et la douleur, la pluie sur le sol sablonneux et le vent chargé d’inconnu.
Autour de moi le monde empli de vie et de mystères sacrés, d’ordre et de règles.
Le son des tambours et les ombres sur les parois folles.
Notre vie à marcher.
Les rencontres avec ceux qui nous ressemblent, les batailles et les fêtes.
Je veux l’univers à lire et la mort à dévorer.

Vos yeux finiront par s’habituer. A l’obscurité, je veux dire, et à tant d’autres choses. Vous ne pouvez pas imaginer, moi-même je n’imaginais pas, avant cela, que l’on pouvait à ce point dégrader les mécanismes d’une humanité qu’on pensait immuable. Notre faculté d’adaptation inouïe. L’acharnement qui permet que quelque chose survive qui ne ressemble en rien à ce que nous fûmes.
Dans la nuit distinguer la proie et le prédateur. Savoir arracher avec les ongles la carapace, la peau ou la fourrure. Ecarquiller les yeux sur le vide noir pour y percevoir un mouvement, écouter le murmure d’un pas, le craquement d’une branche derrière le bruit du vent. Se recroqueviller près d’un feu, à l’abri de sa chaleur, et tout oublier du jour et de son horreur blanche.

Alors le soir je me surprends à repenser à la vie telle qu’elle fut, avant qu’elle eût achevé de sombrer. On s’imagine toujours que ce genre de chute est brutale, qu’il faut une catastrophe pour vous enlever au confort et à l’insouciance. Ça n’est pas vrai. Il n’y a pas de catastrophe. Il n’y a pas de choc, ou alors il a lieu bien avant que l’on puisse discerner quoi que ce soit, sourd, en profondeur, et lorsque son écho lointain fracture la surface du réel, sa cause est oubliée depuis longtemps.

Ce que je veux raconter ne peut se dire que comme une musique, avec rythme et refrain, avec ses variations et son thème, avec le contrepoint sublime d’un chœur de théâtre, avec le chant des respirations à l’unisson, et l’obscurité sacrée de la nuit. Il faut le travail inlassablement répété du rite, la reproduction permanente, la vie et sa redondance, la fraîcheur d’un rire et l’amnésie suave.
Il faut écrire, et répéter l’oubli.

Nous lisons depuis si longtemps. La trace de la proie et de l’ennemi. Le temps et sa ronde infinie, le ciel chargé de symboles, le monde bruissant de vie. Les parois d’une grotte, les parures, les chants et les danses, nous lisons le fragment de la pierre et les traces de pas, le visage de ceux qu’on aime et le geste de l’adversaire. Nous marchons sur un chemin très ancien où s’entrechoquent les puissances immémoriales, d’un temps où le ciel nous enseignait le silence et l’humilité.
Le long de ces préhistoires, nous parcourons le monde, et l’un après l’autre les pays qu’il nous faut habiter.

Silver Musing

Billows lapping against the shore. Faraway yet distinct.
Imaginative leap provides the sound, the smell, the feeling. The story and its characters.
Including you, sitting on the beach, listening to the waves lashing out against the rocks.

Brooding. Gazing. Musing.

Sudden shaft of sun beams dropping light effects onto the glistening surface.
Dripping glare over the silver mirror.
Some presence beckoning us from the distance.

A moveable feast of the senses
Drifting with the clouds, leaving dreams and longings and joys and reliefs in its wake. Let there be light, indeed.
Patches of luminescence gradually complementing the natural sketch
Counterparts to the dark grey and the white foam and the dazzling brightness of the reflected brightness from above.

Birds in a concert—chirping, calling—rehearsing the tunes of Spring.
The yellow dots of mimosa flowers against the deep green of pine trees offer another theatre for the hungry gaze,
The subtle and confident drama of nature in its urban posture liberating the mind from boredom or despair, or just fear.

Sea challenging and heightening our mental exertions.

The physical elegance of the trees and sea in dialogue with the mental elegance of the novel you are reading.

Sudden embrace of life’s possibilities and challenges.
Sudden embrace of the bewildering range of choices, feelings, and impressions aroused by the morning spectacle.
Warbling birds stirring you to engage with a sense of discovery.

Intoxicated with the aesthetic experience; the visual plot unfolding in the clouds inspires meandering and floating emotions of joy and lightness.
A narrative of reconliation and harmony. Unity and coherence.
Swaggering reach of creative directions and engagements.

Finding a center of quiet release and repose.

Life itself.

Voyages In, Voyages Out

Remembering your words about this particular beach being a place where you would/could take vows—swear eternal love. Self-fulfilling prophesy: a couple taking wedding pictures, giving flesh and blood to a mere idea, a pleasant memory, a poetic vision.

Wind and sea in amorous embrace bristling with a thousand lights, resounding a thousand notes.

Canyons, small yet grand,
Sporting arresting hues and colors,
Their surface appearing clearly in its complexity, ruggedness and smoothness
under the unforgiving sunlight.

Rocks sticking out like some giant lego game.

Cliffs disclosing secret coves and caves—or arches where the imagination rests and lingers and thrives.
Cliffs hanging like huge paws resting—at times, claws encroaching on the sea.
Lapping wild billows eroding and erasing nonplussed sand and stones.

Suddenly, a creek looms up in your eyesight with its magic blue basin,
Invading your imagination, preying on your psychic freedom.

A faraway sail stands out—dark blue against the light blue water. Soon matched by a white sail wrestling with the shades and shadows of the horizon where the clouds have convened. A play of correspondences, contrasts, clashes, and occasional harmony.

Wind playing in the waves like brushstrokes on a canvas.
Gentle rippling setting the sea in movement for the eye
Glistening rather than glittering.

And always in the distance, the mysterious house in ruins conjuring up some literary twin—be it the Usher Mansion, or Manderley, or Thornfield Hall.
Sometimes, one can see right through its “vacant eye-like windows”—in reality as in its fictional counterpart(s).
From a distance, the dwelling looks like another rock in an optical illusion that abruptly erases the single man-made interference from the fierce wilderness of the natural territory.

Fellow travelers intoxicated by the tang of the sea…
Cormorants flapping their wings, drying up in the sun, shedding dreams and longings.
A colony of birds, white flocks of dots on a giant mineral petal.

Clouds projecting threatening shadows on the light blue mirror.
Intimation of a coming storm, recalling Vivaldi’s music when the string instruments grow more ominous and relentless—rebellious.

To risk a step forward, even if you have missed the previous step(s). The stumbling block calls forth (for) more steps and propels forward. To turn the unknown and the unfamiliar into stepping stones.

To probe into one’s mistakes with an alternative lens. Errors as wanderings into clarity and truth—entries into learning and sharing. Voyages out, voyages in. Voyages in, voyages out.

In Clouds Begins Responsibility

IN CLOUDS BEGINS RESPONSIBILITY

The sky is at war. One breakthrough lets an unruly beam of light peer out through the aerial wall. Clouds hide the mountains, they have stolen the high daunting ridges away. You are walking, suspended between earth and sky. Thoughts poised between physical and spiritual longings. Clouds hanging over you like cruel gods. Like cruel thoughts in the mental landscaped that will not go away. Relentless, stubborn, indomitable. Thoughts that will continue to conceal the beauty beyond. Invisible but present, if you could only see it! But happy are those who can believe without seeing.

It seems like you are sitting above the clouds. Striding right into them. Yet distracted by a pale pinkish slip in the far away distance, harbinger of hope and truth, reminder of the all-powerful presence of the sun. Of God. You looked up just on time to see it.

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Some thoughts on seeing the glacier

(Keeping in mind Keats’s poem “ On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”)

After twenty days, you feel ready to face the glacier and come to terms with your own barrenness and harshness. At that altitude, no flowers, no birds to comfort you and release you from your existential angst. You must bring enough life in you to stand up to the surrounding desert. Bracing up for an expected fight between darkness and light, fullness and emptiness; your resilience will be tested by a full space of emptiness and void. By your fear of heights, your fear of the fog, your fear of the truthfulness and exposure involved in such an experience.

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Walking to the tune of the moon

The sun is gone, now just a faint yellow blemish in the horizon. The moon is left alone as stage manager.

Piercing eye through the curtain of green.

White moon sitting on top of a snow-capped mountain like some giant Host offering itself to the world.

Pink stage, yellow and orange wings, deep blue proscenium. Then the pink gives way to a darker shade. Orgasmic light over snow shielded peaks. Knights in full armor of beauty and nobility. Spotless sky, pristine evening.

Every night a different show. A miracle of life offered anew to the beholder. Au veilleur.

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