One could go on and on forever talking about anything, but I'll just touch on it here.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

In The Gloaming

(This is an old piece that I keep revisiting. Consider it a look at some work in progress.)

Just before dark, one can imagine the view through the window. Immersed in a dream, the day welcomes the gloaming. Soft lighting carries an unnatural air; every face takes on a haunting beauty. No visible blemish or flaw, no grotesque face appears. Even the sky takes on a new character. After or before storms, dark clouds contrast moodily with the grey-blue sky, and the right sunset leaks its pinks, reds, and oranges into the watery mix. The leaves on the trees make statements in bold outlines, and the blackness of the branches gives the bodies weight and power. Their majesty reveals the reality of Tolkein’s Ents; expect the trees to walk. Whisper in reverence, dashing lightly from tree to tree while hiding from invisible sprites.

High noon leaves nothing to the imagination. Everything shines clear and real and dull. Nothing quite delights like the passing of day into night. The changing of the guard. A time when serious ones leave work and playful ones come out of a deep sleep. Name it the transformation of the selves. The true self feels free, not on stage, not out in the open exposed to scrutiny, not picked apart by all the rest, not wearing a mask. In the gloaming, what’s magical is true. What’s make-believe is reality after all. No phony lights, no scripts, no restrictions, no order, no pomp and circumstance. Just poetry. And there’s no better way to prelude one’s head hitting the pillow than to walk through the gloaming.

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