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Leaden skies lowered, with no more weight or presence than fine, misted snow. But invisible. Gathering unseen momentum until the barest hiss of moisture against dry leaves announced its intent. Siren song of "outside," following the incubation of yesterday, drew me to the muddy undulation of the hillside... opening briared depths to view boundaries obscured. So, yeah, I got ants in my pants. Amazing how what seems wasted effort with chain and blade brings contour to life (how clear-cutters would love to hear this crap) once standing back from concentrated effort. Very much like fretting over minuscule detail on paper or canvas... then taking a breath and a step back, and seeing where the mark makes contribution to the work. Really, it was too foul a day for humping tools and fuel, up and down and over and around to the objects of dissection. But dissected they were, poplars beginning to show buds two weeks into winter. Wrong, that seemed. Laid low, brittle flags set by transit and fingers reappeared. The space I chose now has boundaries redefined, the scope re-emerged. Still, there's much to be done before being able to stand above and see where the pattern falls. Wildness abounds, and will continue once some small order is imparted. Until I learn how the folds of the hills interact... where the deer trails wind... how the old roadbed made practicality... I'll be flailing away with sharpened steel, still. I made an earlier trip to the Empath Hardware Store... the one that always has the most obscure bits when I least expect to find them. Just before leaving, a forgotten phenomenon gave a sly wink... when one segment of the flourescent ceiling snuffed out momentarily. Reminding me of trips on darkened city streets, when a lone mercury vapor lamp would wink off when passing below. Many different times and locations, always a single brilliance suddenly reduced to a dim amber ghost... making you feel like Jack Lemmon in Bell, Book And Candle. Playfully darkening the pavement with subtle witchcraft. Or so it seems. Changes made by reality of the blade, or wishfulness of imagination. |
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