Saturday, April 14, 2012

Saturday commute lxii: all over this world

     Here, basically, is the thing
     that we do. Whatever else you
     may hear is decoration. What-
     ever else he might say, is a
     guy's way of gaining permis-
     sion to excuse himself to go
     do this. Whatever else you 
     may have thought, is natural-
     ly very flattering, but kick
     back. This is what we do.

  I can't allow you to come
  to this page and then de-
  part, with the impression
  that this is complicated.
  It is not. We are hydraulic.

          We could have cracked
          its mirror with a rock,
          a branch that might have lifted
          something muddy to the surface.
          Instead we kept on staring
          and the sun set, several times.

          Somewhere it keeps setting,
          waits for one of us to still
          the thread that hums between us,
          not gossamer but steel.

          Somewhere you shimmer like the lake,
          the picture on the glass is real,
          and one of us says what we didn't say,
          feels what we didn't feel.

Our gestures, our movement, 
our play  and our rest are 
savourings sustained by hy-
draulic splendour; our meta-
phors and our imagery of pos-
sibility are steeped in flow 
and buoyancy, stillness and 

Everything that Nature 
tells us is elegant, she tells us is safe, certain. Even our dearest and most vulnerable extractions of life, such as wine, are expressions of that treas-
ure of which we are a part.

Take me to the lake, we think.  Take me to the 
sea. These environments 
of our most obvious nor-
mality never exhaust 
their tug. We go where 
we are wanted, and all 
that we do there, in 
our various ways, is 
a reclamation for a 
time. I have a friend
who slides on water,
I had a brother who 
made war on it; the reciprocating pressure equalises profusion 
without being told.
Have you left the lake?
I don't think so. 

Jonathan Galassi
  Still Life  [fragment]
op. cit.

iv  Photograph Wynn Bullock

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