A hot pink dawn over the river this morning only lasted about thirty seconds, but highly intense. Some perceptions have to be caught on the fly, others can be savored. Perception is neutral, a register of input, to borrow an ugly term from electronics. It’s what one makes of the input–the phenomenological spark–that creates a meaning. I don’t know how. (Weather & atmospheric phenomena continue to be my master metaphors.) Light from the sun shining across the river / taste of the first sip of coffee. The adventure of what happens.
Note: First thing in the mornings, while Carole is making coffee, I often have the feeling that the various systems & subsystems of my body are coordinating with each other & coming into coherent functioning. That’s what’s supposed to happen. It’s bad news when “systems” are glitchy, but that has not been happening so much recently. Things going relatively smoothly–I almost said “booting up,” demonstrating how hard it can be to keep domains of metaphor separate, though I think it’s important to be able to do so.
The air is cool but sunlight fills the yard. I haven’t been posting much here because my days have all been pretty much the same within a narrow range of sameness. The quality of the light I see when I look out over the river changes over the course of a day: early, it is tinged with yellow, shifting as the morning progresses toward something more neutral, until by midday things present themselves in their own colors. By evening the yellow quality returns. This is all just the physics of light waves. So far so good. But despite the plain science of light, there is some residue of meaning or perhaps only a feeling that inheres in the light. Is it just one of those things that’s “in our heads,” or is there something more? What’s the extra thing that we feel when we allow ourselves to enter the light? Mere illusion? I don’t think so, and can only conclude we human beings–and animals even more so–have the ability to sense the invisible aspects of reality. That light inside the light. The overwhelming greenness of the day is now in full effect & the ordinary light pours down, its invisibles withdrawn into a noon silence. The old Romans thought of noon as a kind of witching hour, a moment of stasis when shadows stand & shiver as noon clicks over into afternoon.
Gratitude: A Sentence
With the trees in full leaf in high summer
I can only see a little patch of the river
through the lower branches reflecting the sky
with its drifting cumulus & altocumulus,
but like a fragment of mirror, that patch
of river intensifies what it reflects—
especially the hues & values of sunrise
(orange) & sunset (yellow), with every shade
of every other color passing across
the smooth or ruffled surface every day.
The leaves have been turning color and falling for a couple of weeks now, but today was the first day they fell in great numbers, all at once, in big, wind-driven swirls. We’ve had waves of wind and rain all afternoon and the trees, though some still have green leaves, are noticably more naked. (Is the use of naked in that last sentence an example of what Cleanth Brooks would call the pathetic fallacy? Screw him.) Just now as I write this, a few shafts of late sun are breaking through and throwing an erie but beautiful light on the pines and maples across the road, which are glowing green and orange as if from within. A real Wordsworthian sort of moment, a brief gleam fading now before I finish the sentence.