. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


14 December 2000

Milling About Overhead (a semi-fiction)

If you asked me, just as I fell into the planter beside the porch, I would've told you that I'd gone color-blind. I was reaching across to water a hanging plant when I glanced up into the sky next to my house: the leaves on the trees and the late afternoon sky were the same color, gone pure autumn-winter before my eyes. I went head first over the edge of the porch, and 2 feet down, landing shoulder and back onto the dry dirt. The brilliant color, that nameless autumn-winter hue, was a heavy bar, gold-brown and glowing, dense as the crippling and expansive emotion it invoked within me. I decided to sit there and see what would happen.

The leaves were milling about overhead, but they were only shape and a sound like a prolonged sigh. They were angels whispering among themselves God's mysteries, and their border was all that separated them from the bright autumn-winter ether. I thought if only I could rise up, I could touch them, and the sky: temperature would have no meaning, and a sensation like sliding my hands across my wife's shoulders would coat my hands and my arms up to my neck.

musings of señor prod.

Working like mad at the Revolution.


©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-