April 21, 2003
-
Icarus Enjoys the View
Auden had an eye for those things. Brueghel’s painting was the focal point so let’s see.
The ploughman pushes onward, yelling to mule, go go. The farmer is looking upward, thinking it looks like rain. To the rear, the sun sets pretty, casting a warm shimmering glow across the sea. Galleons, menacing, full of treasure, dropping anchor, ready to settle with stew and accordion songs for night. In the background, painted in an ephemeral haze, two sloops sailing. In harbor rests an island fort, a small cave mouth dug into prudential rock, hewn with two lopsided towers.
The town is portside and waits lazily for fishermen and farmers and sailors to come home where fat wives, small wives, pretty wives, bickering wives all wait for husbands and future husbands to chow down on plates of gruel and meaty bones.
Flies tickle the horse, her tail swishing. Outside the tavern, she’ll scratch her rump on a wooden post. Inside, men will tell exaggerated stories of women won and lost and dangerous places they’ve been, each born with big dreams of secret maps and adventure.
There in the corner, you’ll almost miss it, two pale legs sticking awkwardly out of the water, white splashes offering a cue. A handsome man with broken wings, hitting the water, hard as a wall.
It’s always a morality tale, the dangers of freedom and arrogance. But let’s go back, just five minutes prior. Caged in a tower, a boy wonders about life and love. His father gives him waxen wings and they escape. Can you imagine the feeling. Eyes wide with wonder and joy, swooping and looping and yes, climbing towards cirrostratus. The sun beads sweat and runs strings of wax as feathers pop off slowly at first, all at once later. Perhaps it’s not as tragic as we think because the boy tasted more freedom than we’re used to.
Maybe it’s more tragic if we wouldn’t do the same. The farmer hears a splash and breaks from the mind-numbing stupor of pushing a cow the length of a field – times ten. But stuck in the tower or off wooing a girl with embellished stories of flight, the guy would’ve ploughed no wiser.
————-
Chinatown
Haven’t been getting much sleep and I’m feeling it now.
Been reading James McBride’s Miracle at St. Anna and it’s pulled me right in. Heard a great interview with him a few months ago and even heard him read some. Seems like another book that isn’t easily categorized – so far, so good.
On December 12, 1944, Sam Train became invisible for the first time. He remembered it exactly.
He was standing on the bank of the Cinquale Canal, just north of Forte dei Marmi, in Italy. It was dawn…
Didn’t mention that I drove out through the Lancaster area and had a great time. Beautiful views and real gusty wind. Bought me a cheap Spiderman kite but it snapped like a twig come a funky breeze.
Good night then!
Comments (2)
Icarus’ wings.
Daniel, do you recall the myth with: a daugher, the underworld and pomegrantes? I recall, but I want to know if you recall.
Excellent book…Miracle at St. Anna!