Mar 11 25
A dark red; ever slightly towards orange — the color of a wine red sun would be close — a deep vermillion hum. All over all in both feeling and landscape.
But — a sense of blackness looms about it; a sub-current. It undermines the possibility of total security, completeness. To be sure, there is no visible black, but a shadow is here, a potential. Perhaps the red is actually a brighter red, but in some sort of all affecting shade. The invisible blackness brings a sense of cold, a fear of a loss of warmth, like, if it goes all black there will be a void and a sadness. It adds an element of desperation to the redness — trapped in the interior sleeve of a bad pope’s robe. But again, this is just a sense, almost a speculation.
But the black, the void, the loss, doesn’t come. Instead the sullen blood-orange shifts rapidly, the change comes on like like a roaring shepherd’s tone, to green. The green sweep is rich, and healthy. An upwelling that wipes clean the previous oppressive, scarlet indeterminacy. A dawn of green! A verdant deconditioning of disquiet! Rapt lungfuls of green! The green man’s green!
But just as quickly, into the rising, welcome cellular solidity, something descends — a mellowing. A golden ice has spread over the radiance turning the emerald to chartreuse, beneficial but not at all typical or familiar. Like still, bent aquatic grasses flash frozen by a spell. A green seen through the yellow ice of a strange mountain stream. It stays like this for some time, a mesmerized green. A witchy wasabi interstice.
Then slowly, like a déjà vu made of auburn tar, or the sap droplets of a freshly cut boxelder, the original red rises up through the queer grassiness. It is not wholly the previous red though. The red has made a compromise with the black. The fear has become reserved — a brownish purple. There is triumph here, but mature; there will be no emotional fanfare. A lone, hard won, lily on a rocky windless hill. But it is the lily’s petal that is the landscape and feeling now. No hill. No sky. All ripe plum petal, everywhere.
But — a sense of blackness looms about it; a sub-current. It undermines the possibility of total security, completeness. To be sure, there is no visible black, but a shadow is here, a potential. Perhaps the red is actually a brighter red, but in some sort of all affecting shade. The invisible blackness brings a sense of cold, a fear of a loss of warmth, like, if it goes all black there will be a void and a sadness. It adds an element of desperation to the redness — trapped in the interior sleeve of a bad pope’s robe. But again, this is just a sense, almost a speculation.
But the black, the void, the loss, doesn’t come. Instead the sullen blood-orange shifts rapidly, the change comes on like like a roaring shepherd’s tone, to green. The green sweep is rich, and healthy. An upwelling that wipes clean the previous oppressive, scarlet indeterminacy. A dawn of green! A verdant deconditioning of disquiet! Rapt lungfuls of green! The green man’s green!
But just as quickly, into the rising, welcome cellular solidity, something descends — a mellowing. A golden ice has spread over the radiance turning the emerald to chartreuse, beneficial but not at all typical or familiar. Like still, bent aquatic grasses flash frozen by a spell. A green seen through the yellow ice of a strange mountain stream. It stays like this for some time, a mesmerized green. A witchy wasabi interstice.
Then slowly, like a déjà vu made of auburn tar, or the sap droplets of a freshly cut boxelder, the original red rises up through the queer grassiness. It is not wholly the previous red though. The red has made a compromise with the black. The fear has become reserved — a brownish purple. There is triumph here, but mature; there will be no emotional fanfare. A lone, hard won, lily on a rocky windless hill. But it is the lily’s petal that is the landscape and feeling now. No hill. No sky. All ripe plum petal, everywhere.