the round-scape (revised)
Posted: November 24th, 2005, 9:02 am
A logic born of utter flatness must yield perspective deficit. No chance to catch a view from the hills. Lately, I love the thought of a desolate ocean, if it's within sight of promising slopes. Life runs on promise. I refuse to jam too much of it through narrow slots of 'truth'. Lately, I put myself up against a distant rock corrugation as an underdog, and try to solve parts of its vision. But I might lose the thread if the trail dives into a canyon or wash. I am not a canyon dweller by nature. I run on wide-angle solar fuel.
I want to see more of the mosaic, the whole tectonic nightmare dressed as basin and range peace, the massive fault-blocks passed off as soft visages of rock spine. It was all born from a violence off-scale at some point in time, though none of it can touch me because I am instantaneous, invisible to the earth clock. And I harbor no delusions that I might tap into the epochs by mere touch of their exposed strata.
Nevada has little to do with a wager or flashing light. It is a high and dry kingdom of sage perfume, leached minerals, and beaten rock. At its southern point and well into California, there is a dropoff, where dust-borne depressions form great curves and are known to assume shapes of clouds, through which unexplained points of rock project unreasonably; scenes unrecognizable in next morning's clarity, scenes not to be taken too seriously.
Those gentle arcs seem every bit as unnatural as Utah's puzzle of spires and cliffs. In that domain, I'm easily persuaded to adopt a Creator; one with a sense of humor. On that playful round-scape where the desert floor arcs into different climates, I imagine an inspired Author of Creation scoop up measureless sand, pile it against mountains, and begin to smooth it out in a thoughtful, long curve; the start of a defining sculpture before an unfortunate interruption. The slopes are still waiting. At random viewpoints, they all taper elegantly to a point in relaxed angular arcs; a nexus of relaxed angular desire. I should endeavor to go there.
But the views are held at an incalculable span, treacherous scale of desire, concavity which bends space, seductively. I crest a ridge and the earth drops away in a divine arc. The far side is a fuzzed vision. Muted shapes feather into a peculiar dream, and the full depth of the arc is realized. I want the dream so I follow the arc. With sufficient will, I might reach its soft, detached promise.
But to chase it is to lose it. When I descend the arc, the far side compresses mysteriously, and its soft shapes gradually release their hold on a dream state, until upon rising up the far slope, it is impossible to recognize what I sought. I look backward across the arc for clues. I note another fuzzed vision; a bright incline and delicate fringe which I must have missed as I went by.
"roundscape" near Baker, Calif.
edited for typos, etc.
I want to see more of the mosaic, the whole tectonic nightmare dressed as basin and range peace, the massive fault-blocks passed off as soft visages of rock spine. It was all born from a violence off-scale at some point in time, though none of it can touch me because I am instantaneous, invisible to the earth clock. And I harbor no delusions that I might tap into the epochs by mere touch of their exposed strata.
Nevada has little to do with a wager or flashing light. It is a high and dry kingdom of sage perfume, leached minerals, and beaten rock. At its southern point and well into California, there is a dropoff, where dust-borne depressions form great curves and are known to assume shapes of clouds, through which unexplained points of rock project unreasonably; scenes unrecognizable in next morning's clarity, scenes not to be taken too seriously.
Those gentle arcs seem every bit as unnatural as Utah's puzzle of spires and cliffs. In that domain, I'm easily persuaded to adopt a Creator; one with a sense of humor. On that playful round-scape where the desert floor arcs into different climates, I imagine an inspired Author of Creation scoop up measureless sand, pile it against mountains, and begin to smooth it out in a thoughtful, long curve; the start of a defining sculpture before an unfortunate interruption. The slopes are still waiting. At random viewpoints, they all taper elegantly to a point in relaxed angular arcs; a nexus of relaxed angular desire. I should endeavor to go there.
But the views are held at an incalculable span, treacherous scale of desire, concavity which bends space, seductively. I crest a ridge and the earth drops away in a divine arc. The far side is a fuzzed vision. Muted shapes feather into a peculiar dream, and the full depth of the arc is realized. I want the dream so I follow the arc. With sufficient will, I might reach its soft, detached promise.
But to chase it is to lose it. When I descend the arc, the far side compresses mysteriously, and its soft shapes gradually release their hold on a dream state, until upon rising up the far slope, it is impossible to recognize what I sought. I look backward across the arc for clues. I note another fuzzed vision; a bright incline and delicate fringe which I must have missed as I went by.
"roundscape" near Baker, Calif.
edited for typos, etc.
Just kidding.