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Jan. 23rd, 2011 02:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proximoceptionWhere the trees stopped above the river there was an opening in the branches that changed shape as the wind milled the leaves raggedly edging it. And past that were more trees of the same kind on other hills, all in the changed colors of distance. This wind or another touched those too, and in more places, though to less effect.
The woman and man in the film said simple things under face-simplifying makeup. Their gestures were intelligible and sequential and framed like a painting, except there were no colors. There was a black tree behind their gray coats. They stood between the camera and the one patch of clear sky visible. Their eyes were narrowed, then those of one widened, followed by those of the other, and then both sets narrowed again and stayed that way until the scene was over.
They stepped out of their rectangle into color and smoked a few feet apart above the river. Their hats were really gray, but different kinds. In the movie she loved him but he loved another. Now no one loved anyone so everyone was friendly. They talked about the hills across the river, where one of them was from. They talked about the actress who played the another who'd hit her head on a swinging light and been hospitalized. They talked about the approaching holiday and where they'd go. There had been filming on a rowboat that morning and they still had bits of gnat beneath their fingernails, bits smearing their cigarettes slightly. And now they're both dead.
There would be names for the different colors of distance if we ever saw them together with these nearby. The leaves that blow about in front of those leaves being blown through across the river never touch them, or touch what touches them or even touch what that touches. They're not together. The color of the first hill isn't that of the taller behind it. There would be names for the types of distance if there were fewer of them.
We don't get enough credit for the care we take to stop naming. The leaky Platonism of language is a refuge, an opiate. Imagine how it would be to remember everybody.
The woman and man in the film said simple things under face-simplifying makeup. Their gestures were intelligible and sequential and framed like a painting, except there were no colors. There was a black tree behind their gray coats. They stood between the camera and the one patch of clear sky visible. Their eyes were narrowed, then those of one widened, followed by those of the other, and then both sets narrowed again and stayed that way until the scene was over.
They stepped out of their rectangle into color and smoked a few feet apart above the river. Their hats were really gray, but different kinds. In the movie she loved him but he loved another. Now no one loved anyone so everyone was friendly. They talked about the hills across the river, where one of them was from. They talked about the actress who played the another who'd hit her head on a swinging light and been hospitalized. They talked about the approaching holiday and where they'd go. There had been filming on a rowboat that morning and they still had bits of gnat beneath their fingernails, bits smearing their cigarettes slightly. And now they're both dead.
There would be names for the different colors of distance if we ever saw them together with these nearby. The leaves that blow about in front of those leaves being blown through across the river never touch them, or touch what touches them or even touch what that touches. They're not together. The color of the first hill isn't that of the taller behind it. There would be names for the types of distance if there were fewer of them.
We don't get enough credit for the care we take to stop naming. The leaky Platonism of language is a refuge, an opiate. Imagine how it would be to remember everybody.
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Date: 2011-01-23 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-23 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-23 06:09 pm (UTC)And btw, I like this quite a bit, too. I'm at a point in my "novel-in-progress" where certain characters are described in terms of the television characters they play and the actors they are, the scenes they're in and the barely visible life outside that. It's been surprisingly exciting to write.
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Date: 2011-01-23 07:05 pm (UTC)I'd like to read your book when it wants to be read.
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Date: 2011-01-23 08:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-23 10:15 pm (UTC)Because you know I'd love to have your opinion.
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Date: 2011-01-23 10:13 pm (UTC)In MFA school, I was once paired with a writing professor who, in reading Proust for the first time, was taking the liberty of drawing a thin pencil line through all the non-narrative parts. It wasn't like he was against the non-narrative, discursive parts - but still, the gesture made me feel ill.
I would love to have you read and comment! Wolodymyr was an incredibly helpful reader of the first thirty-something pages. If your offer still stands when I'm feeling solid about the next section I'm working on, I'd like that. Thanks.
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Date: 2011-01-23 11:07 pm (UTC)