HAZARDS, writing back no. 32

Amherst November,1864?

Dear Emily,

It is November, you write, which ‘always seemed to me the Norway of the year.’  No, no it feels like November, but March has come after an extended Scandinavia. Soon it will be gone. Every day is one minute better, brighter, more human. Each dies a little less. In a late 18th Century November my new Jacobin friend walked the night hills between stunted trees, full falling through combes all the way to the harbouring sea. Like water. I did it too, during this recent Finland; through coldly forecast drizzle, upwards into heavying cloud but peaked in the windworn scrub of a hidden iron age, only for the clouds to part on a little Mediterranean. For the hill and it’s seductive combes to rush at me, bent tree sentinels to be recognised and postcards from the cradles of civilisation to arrive. All the tropical months. STC was no Jacobin but a romancer of the running combes and their conjurings, spied upon by Arctic circles of the establishment mind. E. and I walked miles and miles of mud and stone in visions of poesy. Without official confirmations. Within warming words. So it’s possible, but I prefer the tropical calendar which returns my self; body and breath, a ‘spacious and untold’ mindfulness, to me. Places and times where ‘noons’ are ‘sterner’, ‘sundowns’ properly ‘laconic’. Looking forward to Mesopotamia,

g.

Fruitstore 22.iii.2010

One thought on “HAZARDS, writing back no. 32

  1. Dear You.
    This looks Fabulous. I am nearly going to bed so I haven’t managed to read it yet but will do tomorrow.
    From Me.

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