Sundown in the city
and all the pace
seems to turn to a sway.
Is it the dying of the light
that steadies the erratic beat?
or is it perhaps the fading
that reminds the forgetful dwellers
that the dying is ever in them,
gestating?
But these things are too sombre
for the sun,
as it ought to be for us diurnally kissed
by fire.
The fall of an eternal—
it happens at every sunset
but occurs not with a quickened breath
or a desire for finality;
it descends at its own pace,
on its own terms,
and with such great colour and fanfare and dignity.
It is sundown in the city
and the pace turns to a sway.
Ex Tempore XLVI
M.M. — 29-Apr-2013
29 April 2013
10 April 2013
Prose VIII
Sitting down gracefully, the implements are all counted and put in their place on the desk. Scalpel, chisel, a small hammer, pliers for the wires and a screwdriver. All of them built so finely and now ready for a fine purpose. The mirror—a glassy soul—reflects the image, the masterwork, which is illumined so brightly by the in-built lights that the horror-beauty of the image astonishes and appals in equal measure.
But now to begin. Which tool first to use? Where the place of initial penetration? So important a choice—it must be perfect—and also so savoury, the whole process of choosing. The chisel and hammer—yes, these must be first. Picking them up and positioning them in the correct manner on the image—the way they were destined to be before they were even crafted. Positioning them, readying them, a moment, a breath then—CRACK! An exhilaration as if of a vent releasing steam kept sealed for aeons deep in the vaults of the earth! The image begins to change.
Continuing as before—a chisel here, a hammer there—and then selecting the scalpel for the finer needs and the screwdriver to lever out the stubborn pieces, the image evolves, gestates. Piece after piece falls away; the parts of the shell are dislodged an discarded. It is fine work indeed. The progress is quite satisfactory. This goes on until all the bits of mask are crumbs on the desktop and all is left is the afterimage.
The afterimage—the image-after—the afterimage the image after. It is of empty space, feels like black and has a texture of nothingness. Placing a hand on and into the void–afterimage—as a coldness is felt—everything is subsumed into the emptiness: the tools, the mirror, the lights, the hand and all that was attached to it. It is very much a whirling into what is a blackhole (wanting for a better term). Soon the chasm has consumed all of the original image's world and nothing is left but the afterimage. It is silent and centred at the nexus of all things. It is what was before, it is what is now and it is what will be next. It is a fine work, a fine work indeed.
M.M. — 10-Mar-2013
But now to begin. Which tool first to use? Where the place of initial penetration? So important a choice—it must be perfect—and also so savoury, the whole process of choosing. The chisel and hammer—yes, these must be first. Picking them up and positioning them in the correct manner on the image—the way they were destined to be before they were even crafted. Positioning them, readying them, a moment, a breath then—CRACK! An exhilaration as if of a vent releasing steam kept sealed for aeons deep in the vaults of the earth! The image begins to change.
Continuing as before—a chisel here, a hammer there—and then selecting the scalpel for the finer needs and the screwdriver to lever out the stubborn pieces, the image evolves, gestates. Piece after piece falls away; the parts of the shell are dislodged an discarded. It is fine work indeed. The progress is quite satisfactory. This goes on until all the bits of mask are crumbs on the desktop and all is left is the afterimage.
The afterimage—the image-after—the afterimage the image after. It is of empty space, feels like black and has a texture of nothingness. Placing a hand on and into the void–afterimage—as a coldness is felt—everything is subsumed into the emptiness: the tools, the mirror, the lights, the hand and all that was attached to it. It is very much a whirling into what is a blackhole (wanting for a better term). Soon the chasm has consumed all of the original image's world and nothing is left but the afterimage. It is silent and centred at the nexus of all things. It is what was before, it is what is now and it is what will be next. It is a fine work, a fine work indeed.
M.M. — 10-Mar-2013
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