Thursday, January 9, 2014

Lick the icing of the dream

The snow, the sky,
the skeletal trees, the red barn.
You know we have a foot or so of snow. It's funny what snow does -- hides things, changes things, smooths them over. Messes them up, even. Sometimes the snow's like sensory deprivation -- deadens all the sound and the snow and the white-grey sky all running together and it's something different from a dead landscape -- it's more like a blank landscape, a place that could be changed or made into anything. I bought this book, it's all the works of Charles Bukowski, because I realized I'd never read any Charles Bukowski that I was aware of and felt bereft of Bukowski. It's called Run with the Hunted and I found it on Amazon for about ten bucks for the Kindle edition, which is why I love Amazon and my Kindle, instant gratification, but I digress.
But here's the first thing I read in this Bukowski book and I knew I had to remember it '& the great white horses come up & lick the frost of the dream' which sounds kind of Game of Thrones, winter is not just coming, it's already here, but also brings us back to the snow, all this snow that covers everything like frosting and that's piled up on the edges of things -- parking lots, roads, driveways -- like the edging on a cake. And then I got to thinking that the great blank canvas of snow is like the great white blankness of paper, or even of the blanco box I'm writing this post in, blankness just waiting to be changed, hidden, smoothed over, messed up, waiting here for the great white horses to trample it, leave tracks across it, we must just climb up on that pony and ride.

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