The Dome that Covers Us Daily
At the river, 3 nights in a row as the sun went down.
I haven't been everywhere in the world, but I have seen some pretty amazing places, and in most places, when the sun gets low, and when it just goes down, the whole world glows in a way that's beyond our day-to-day lives, and the light transports us, to a life somewhere else, beyond this one, maybe. Probably not. That's thick, but I am in the gloam- I think that might be what it's called- and it is so beyond alive, with itself, beyond what one would expect, with color and shape.
I see it as ignorant of us, not a reminder that we are part of some great Chain of Being, but more of a reminder that there is stark, cold beauty out there, and its stark and not cuddly and like your Mom, all loving, but cold, like a star, and literally cold,, like when we contemplate the cosmos lying in the cold desert. I don't really have any feeling that it even cares about me, or that all is one, or anything. Its more like I get to open the door a little, and look. Briefly, at the fabric that surrounds us, and our petty problems and politics and attempts to survive. The world, though much is life, is mostly dead, and the sky dominates it all, and is entirely dead and cold and all seeing and of tremendous beauty.
This must be the Edmund Burke thing, about the sublime, and I am guessing I am referring to the sublime.
I went to paint with my friend Mike Ball. If you live in this town, you know him. It would take a book or a Wikipedia article to describe him. His favorite type of beauty, and I can't tell much here, is a beautiful women. He's getting up to 70, so he's basing alot on his exploits and insights into the his long life. But it occurs to me, as we paint side by side looking down a grassy valley, what's the difference between the stark star here, shining down and spiking a glitterly light in a dim swamp, and a pretty girl?
I can't say.
I think, the next night, as the moon rises up and it's freezing cold and the last geese come in and disappear into the black fringe of the forest, that if i had to leave this world, that I'd be ok with doing it here, and just say good bye to the great world around and close and uncaring, and go out, and really maybe not be too clinging or worried about it.That's a hard thought to come by.
Here are a few images from the the evenings in the valley..
I haven't been everywhere in the world, but I have seen some pretty amazing places, and in most places, when the sun gets low, and when it just goes down, the whole world glows in a way that's beyond our day-to-day lives, and the light transports us, to a life somewhere else, beyond this one, maybe. Probably not. That's thick, but I am in the gloam- I think that might be what it's called- and it is so beyond alive, with itself, beyond what one would expect, with color and shape.
I see it as ignorant of us, not a reminder that we are part of some great Chain of Being, but more of a reminder that there is stark, cold beauty out there, and its stark and not cuddly and like your Mom, all loving, but cold, like a star, and literally cold,, like when we contemplate the cosmos lying in the cold desert. I don't really have any feeling that it even cares about me, or that all is one, or anything. Its more like I get to open the door a little, and look. Briefly, at the fabric that surrounds us, and our petty problems and politics and attempts to survive. The world, though much is life, is mostly dead, and the sky dominates it all, and is entirely dead and cold and all seeing and of tremendous beauty.
This must be the Edmund Burke thing, about the sublime, and I am guessing I am referring to the sublime.
I went to paint with my friend Mike Ball. If you live in this town, you know him. It would take a book or a Wikipedia article to describe him. His favorite type of beauty, and I can't tell much here, is a beautiful women. He's getting up to 70, so he's basing alot on his exploits and insights into the his long life. But it occurs to me, as we paint side by side looking down a grassy valley, what's the difference between the stark star here, shining down and spiking a glitterly light in a dim swamp, and a pretty girl?
I can't say.
I think, the next night, as the moon rises up and it's freezing cold and the last geese come in and disappear into the black fringe of the forest, that if i had to leave this world, that I'd be ok with doing it here, and just say good bye to the great world around and close and uncaring, and go out, and really maybe not be too clinging or worried about it.That's a hard thought to come by.
Here are a few images from the the evenings in the valley..
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