a repost for the season…
a repost for the season…
Soft the dove-hued shadows mingle,
Color fades, sound droops to sleep.
Life and motion melt to darkness
Swaying murmurs far and deep.
But the night moth’s languid flitting
Stirs the air invisibly:
Oh, the hour of wordless longing;
I in all, and all in me.
Twilight—tranquil, brooding twilight,
Course through me, serene and smooth;
Quiet, languid, fragrant twilight,
Flood all depths, all sorrows soothe,
Every sense in dark and cooling
Grant that I may taste extinction
In the dreaming universe.
Quote: Fyodor Tyutchev, from Twilight; (Translated by Avrahm Yarmolinsky). Written in 1835.
Photo: DK @ Twilight. 5:45 am September 12, 2021. 67° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
with thanks to David Kanigan
Twilight has been my favorite time of the day for a long time. I am certain that if it’s caught just right we witness a thinning in the veil between places concrete and divine.
This reflection beautifully describes the experience of twilight.
75 minutes before sunrise, I start out in darkness, and slide into Twilight.
90 consecutive days, same loop, 5 miles, Cove Island Park and back.
I had to Google it, because I didn’t know what it was called, the in-between time between night and sunrise.
Twilight: “the soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the refraction and scattering of the sun’s rays from the atmosphere.”
I have no clue what all that means — and no interest in learning more.
I’m deep into Kate Zambreno’s new book: Drifts: A Novel. My kind of book. She describes it as “Prose, little things, I stammer out.” (I wish I could stammer, spit and cough out anything close to this.)
Her words: “A shock of color out of nowhere.” And that’s exactly what it was. Look at it. The photo above, taken @ 5:24 a.m
. 24 minutes before sunrise. 24 minutes before sunrise. Where does this light, this ‘shock of color’ come from?
In a different time, a different scene, she goes on to talk about “the light of Vermeer’s paintings. Their silence and mystery…So often the painting seems to be of the same room, at the same picture window… whether the sun floods in directly or diffusely.”
And so here we are. 90 consecutive days on this same walk. The same room, the same picture window, a new Vermeer each morning.
I tuck my camera into my bag, and head home. I twist in my earbuds and listen to Audible pumping in the narration. She closes out her book on an Albrecht Durer quote, back in the 1500’s (before the internet, before digital cameras):
“What beauty is, I know not, though it adheres to many things.”
And so it does Albrecht, so it does.