It's not something I take for granted though
the ballpoint skates easily enough on the slick surface of the card and the
stamp, a Mexican Strawberry, 100 pesos, promises quick and efficient
I jot down a few phrases about the clarity of
the air in these mountains, so pure "light-headed" takes on a new meaning - a
luminosity that keeps us drunk - and think of the lengthening nights you
inhabit What little-used knowledge does constant dark elicit? Or, more likely,
it's not constant. but a palette of varying greys, an old-master drawing lit by
a few strokes of white.
Is the world new to you? Or is it just a
species of memory, this landscape, as all landscapes are, and what's new is
yourself? As though the skin, that tough but flexible membrane, were merely a
convention, an arbitrary boundary to keep the soul from dispersal.
will stop here. you decide, but the here , is always changing.
In grade five we made
papier-mâché planets, a yellow sun and silvery moon, imagined
intergalactic conquest as we hurled them around the room.
The next year our horizons narrowed to a
topographical model of the earth - I liked the mountains of gritty plaster;
painted oceans were never convincing. Later still, pages of maps detailed
rainfall, crop rotation, statistics in coloured markers: a flat and abstract
I remember none of the numbers, can barely
dredge up capital cities memorized as a school-yard game. Anyhow, many of the
names have changed. But I remember those planets whizzing by, the earth the
size of an orange, the sun a grapefruit, the delicate moon
a plum; their
orbits fixed in my head forever.