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Tuesday last at 430 in the morning I was driving north along 89 in… - fingersweep [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
fingersweep

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[Dec. 4th, 2016|10:32 pm]
fingersweep
Tuesday last at 430 in the morning I was driving north along 89 in Utah. It was cold and still but there was a dark hush resting round things, as though snow had already fallen on them. Speaking to a woman outside in the cold air, filling gas, there was a twang in the throat and hers, heard too in the crunch of a twig, the crust of ice underfoot, a pullback in the air, fast, in the shadow of snow and stars (the stars are ice, Anaximenes says, fixed on the periphery and the planets they're leaves, blowing backward and forward in the upper wind), a quiet dissension of things from other things, like joining like and pressing about as mountains round valleys, an audience an amphitheater, to wait. Snow, thought, has its heralds, as Emerson says somewhere, and then the brass is muted. Single things are amplified, twigs and icicles and a car and the swing-to of a door, but it's as though all these things happened behind the curtain, after hours, with the company at ease and unobserved and unlistened-to.

Earlier the air is or shines like the inside of a shell or a curved horn, and the breath steams out of your lungs as dense as a bull's -- you look at it and just seeing it rise and spiral upward sends you wild with joy, and seeing it in others fills you with such a sense of camaraderie and love for them you could hardly justify it to yourself nor would you: here's that signal proof of all you felt the rest of the year, and the possibility that others feel it too, having each taken a private leap in thought and said to themselves as that Russian said: 'The best means for true happiness in life is, without any laws, to put forth from yourself in all directions, like a spider, a web of love and to catch everything that falls into it.' The unsnowed-on earth and the attentive air and the mountains encircling the plains (see the dark flashes over the plains).

But before this happened four elk stepped out onto the road, and I slammed on the brakes to let them pass. The last, a six-foot high (at the horns), nine-foot long bull elk, stopped in the road, turned its head south a few degrees, and then chased after the hog-sized blurs to the east, the last of them a dull white, fading point against the frost and the snow-capped mountain ten miles away. Snow started falling an hour later.

Out in Nebraska now (where I'll be till Saturday the 10th, I think). Next week I'm not sure.
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: proximoception
2016-12-05 07:27 am (UTC)
Lovely, esp. the single things in snow.
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[User Picture]From: nightspore
2016-12-05 09:07 pm (UTC)
"the meteor of the snow"

So glad to see you here again.

I was thinking of you (if that's metaphysically possible) last week. Son J has become a mad Wagnerian (we saw the gorgeous, haunting, spooky, eerie, sublime Tristan at the Met in October), and partially by way of balance or correction over Thanksgiving we spent Saturday seeing both La Boheme (with Ryan Speedo Green, who was lovely in the last act), and Aida on the same day, with a dinner interlude.
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