I understand the allure of infinity
pools from, perhaps, an odd perspec-
tive. I don't care about their illu-
sion, I like that they allow us all
to share the same one.
Like everyone else, I feel in pools
the impression of an amniotic frat-
ernity, also, with others similarly
immersed, suspended, buoyed, envel-
oped. I think one just does.
In other words, while I do not pre-
tend to take to water naturally, I,
nevertheless, prize my rapport with
it enough, to equate its embrace as
if it were for me. I do not collect
memorabilia in the islands; I float
to compile their possession.
A friend of mine is a very good po-
et, and sent me a project he'd been
working on, which was the rarest of
courtesies I'd ever experienced. He
was even more gentlemanly, for dis-
arming any apprehension, it were a-
bout me.
To step into another, known mental-
ity, directing itself as if along a
meniscus, hovering as a stroke upon
the horizon of its vision, casts me
decidedly into a pool I identify as
an embrace, to which it is not more
than polite to offer a response. On
doing so, I presented tentative im-
pressions which narrated my experi-
ence of reading my immersion, with-
out refusing to articulate a summa-
tion of greatly relishing its view.
I learned in reply, the poet is not
finished with this project, that he
believes it to be unsatisfactory in
its present state. This, I respect;
yet here I am, soothed and succour-
ed in the intimate space of critic-
al permission, having reveled as no
one else ever may, in a setting I'd
felt, anyone would own.
Lawrence Durrell
The Black Book
1938
James Hamilton-Paterson
Playing with Water
1987
No comments:
Post a Comment