Monday, September 19, 2011
A Hohl Passage
At My Writing Desk. And again — —: the magical silhouettes before me, the first one I see is the wood shed; then it spreads, the sun-lit houses make up the second one; further away, the poplar trees with the blue sky are the third silhouette. And now it is time to separate these silhouettes from each other (there must be sculpture!). There, far, far back, near the thin poplars, even farther, but underneath, on the earth (there where sight cannot reach), the thing I am working on is happening: suddenly I discover that I am ceaselessly making beckoning, alluring motions to the wood shed and the other silhouettes: it must be done in this way, in ceaseless travail, so that magic can happen, so that the wood shed that I beckon, and the other silhouettes, become increasingly inessential and disappear more and more in my hand in proportion to how much I succeed in pulling that far off happening through the wood shed and through all the silhouettes, toward me at last.