Recently commented on
Condensing octaves
Like finger-print wrinkles, clumping in repeated rolls, barrel-vault wrinkle oriented in single meandering spread that shifts every few diameters, then reasserts itself. Cutting across, a twill-chevron of cross-wrinkles then searing across the whole, a ridge that grows in height, reverse fissures, becoming more turbulent as it merges, then collapsing upward into cumulus-bursts with entrail-quilted spicules and hydra-vortices shedding beside and behind. This thermal plumage is tiny, not the thunderhead I already know but instead tufts, follicles. Where is the next? Just ahead, one valley’s length and then another. And another- skipping-stones’ lengths decelerating.
Interrupted by upper layer haze, thickening into the next skin. Similar wrinkles, but sharper and with tighter folds- like tulle, or gauze, compared to the canvas lower. Tufts here only singular, but marked by great outward swaths of rebound and counter-current that furrows the surface, nipple and navel arrays but then the reverse- ahead, a pitted skin with sinks and gentle whirlpool creases converging around, upholstered. Pigskin, orange peel alternating.
A circular rainbow accompanies my view. Centre: warm gold-pink, then blushing into rose, and cooling to violet and fading to pure blue indistinguishable from the surrounding bright sky above. Yet I see it as a shadow, marking the cloud-field outward to green emerald, moving into yellow-hue, and then into pink-orange in the centre. Again to red, and to violet, and outward into sky-blue. Yet again, elusively- the faint-glow of green tinting the orb, moving toward yellow. When I see it, the arc asserts, streaming around. I turn around the whole and survey, answered by hints of hue-yellow, red-orange, violet outward in its condensing zone- outward again, octave-wise, measured from the cadence, and breath-whisper signal of hue in one zone, there at upper left, rippling outward with its accompanying inner tinges and echoed at sixty degrees to the right; four, five, six rings.
I sweep over the field of clouds, furrowed in local and regional and national octaves, ocean swells enfolding molecular ripples and soviet clusters, sheared and torn into cross-current strained shatters whose gores hang in threads, shifting ahead into frozen crystal-breaks whose cracking pattern marches for half the horizon and then softens into elastic rolls again, white meringue alternating with vanilla-icing buttering. While drifting down my own membranes darkened fragments of microorganisms float. My glasses fog slightly as the vessel turns into the light, carving the field with relief and searing through with prism-shards, radian. Seeing the meniscus, blinded in pink and white, turning inward. What am I seeing, and what am I projecting? Where do I look and what is found? Pre-historic history tracks await in limbic brains, fissured to receive my gaze. Or cutting and lurching then to the front, in proud social congitium: freezing the knowledge, holding the view firm. I have it. It is mine. I’ll tell you presently.
Somewhat like this, I looked into the woods, standing on snow-crusted tracks that lead a mile in from Hespeler Road beside the washed-out bridge abutments. Alder saplings rise all around made a dense thicket, saturating the middle ground. Dotted in between are pines and cedar bushes, planted by the Sorensen family a decade ago. In the snow just in front of my own I saw rabbit and deer tracks clustered into a dense path, crossing and winding through the alder deep into the thicket on my right. I turned and looked, following the staccato clumps of rabbit paw racing, and deer hoof at measured pace.Folding out deeper, I saw the path lengthen and run past one alder clump, then another and another, overlapping tangles layering. Like tripping arpeggios, flittering in dashing ribbons threading down and in. It is that lengthening, darting further and further in a staccato rush, that I now wonder: is it my skill in seeing the diminishing tracks, darting and reaching deeper? I see; I am disposed to see. I see within a tightly focused set of dashing stripes within a densely embroidered field: this mask includes, and excludes. The springy trill of magnetic meniscus-clumps lensing my named field: track. Track. Track-track-track-track. Marionette, of my own ingrained rigging. By way of confirmation, the photograph of that scene shows only a clotted morass, path buried after only the immediate foreground. No reaching; silence.
Interrupted by upper layer haze, thickening into the next skin. Similar wrinkles, but sharper and with tighter folds- like tulle, or gauze, compared to the canvas lower. Tufts here only singular, but marked by great outward swaths of rebound and counter-current that furrows the surface, nipple and navel arrays but then the reverse- ahead, a pitted skin with sinks and gentle whirlpool creases converging around, upholstered. Pigskin, orange peel alternating.
A circular rainbow accompanies my view. Centre: warm gold-pink, then blushing into rose, and cooling to violet and fading to pure blue indistinguishable from the surrounding bright sky above. Yet I see it as a shadow, marking the cloud-field outward to green emerald, moving into yellow-hue, and then into pink-orange in the centre. Again to red, and to violet, and outward into sky-blue. Yet again, elusively- the faint-glow of green tinting the orb, moving toward yellow. When I see it, the arc asserts, streaming around. I turn around the whole and survey, answered by hints of hue-yellow, red-orange, violet outward in its condensing zone- outward again, octave-wise, measured from the cadence, and breath-whisper signal of hue in one zone, there at upper left, rippling outward with its accompanying inner tinges and echoed at sixty degrees to the right; four, five, six rings.
I sweep over the field of clouds, furrowed in local and regional and national octaves, ocean swells enfolding molecular ripples and soviet clusters, sheared and torn into cross-current strained shatters whose gores hang in threads, shifting ahead into frozen crystal-breaks whose cracking pattern marches for half the horizon and then softens into elastic rolls again, white meringue alternating with vanilla-icing buttering. While drifting down my own membranes darkened fragments of microorganisms float. My glasses fog slightly as the vessel turns into the light, carving the field with relief and searing through with prism-shards, radian. Seeing the meniscus, blinded in pink and white, turning inward. What am I seeing, and what am I projecting? Where do I look and what is found? Pre-historic history tracks await in limbic brains, fissured to receive my gaze. Or cutting and lurching then to the front, in proud social congitium: freezing the knowledge, holding the view firm. I have it. It is mine. I’ll tell you presently.
Somewhat like this, I looked into the woods, standing on snow-crusted tracks that lead a mile in from Hespeler Road beside the washed-out bridge abutments. Alder saplings rise all around made a dense thicket, saturating the middle ground. Dotted in between are pines and cedar bushes, planted by the Sorensen family a decade ago. In the snow just in front of my own I saw rabbit and deer tracks clustered into a dense path, crossing and winding through the alder deep into the thicket on my right. I turned and looked, following the staccato clumps of rabbit paw racing, and deer hoof at measured pace.Folding out deeper, I saw the path lengthen and run past one alder clump, then another and another, overlapping tangles layering. Like tripping arpeggios, flittering in dashing ribbons threading down and in. It is that lengthening, darting further and further in a staccato rush, that I now wonder: is it my skill in seeing the diminishing tracks, darting and reaching deeper? I see; I am disposed to see. I see within a tightly focused set of dashing stripes within a densely embroidered field: this mask includes, and excludes. The springy trill of magnetic meniscus-clumps lensing my named field: track. Track. Track-track-track-track. Marionette, of my own ingrained rigging. By way of confirmation, the photograph of that scene shows only a clotted morass, path buried after only the immediate foreground. No reaching; silence.
Add comment
| Promote |
|
Add to favorites
|
| Create synapse |
|
