miðvikudagur, febrúar 21, 2007


There, between the slabs of concrete, floor and ceiling, a stripe of rain and fog, dark tree branches against it and through it.

(memories from the train on the bridge from Slagelse eastward, the view across the Bælt a claustrophobic stripe of Audenesque grays between water and cloud that made all Nordic minimalism snap suddenly into place---or is it always like that when you are traveling to the sickbed of a loved one?)

For a moment the soft gray is mist clinging to the hill, hiding houses, lush trees, the ridge above, all invisible in the wetness of it. It is a glimpse of a familiar unseen sight, a blind man's vision of home,
until the eye adjusts to the sheeting water and sees there is nothing behind it. The gray and rain goes on over trees and unfamiliar buildings and empty fields.

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