The Fretted Terrain

25 Oct

I must soon quit the scene – American Analog Set

I recall our foundation. Of course there was red. I painted them in long strokes, uplifted by tectonic knife quakes, striped, a solid evidence of early onset B layer formation. In the middle of a vast body of watercolor. There were people on those and now I see them only in my dreams. Or I in theirs. Dancing.

There were two.

I. Imagine Monument Valley. Now forty times taller. Forrest Gump is a speck. A bit of dust in your eye.

II. The Fretted Terrain. Think of what the mariners saw. Think vikings. It’s like that. Red, falling, crumble. The creator resembling that of a drunk architect, or a spider on LSD. Rickety.

A return returns a retinal shock to find the tall stack, the I. toppled and knocked, or moved or all. The water’s gone. Now bone dry, silt deposits, slightly darker, coffee rind topography. All that remains is the crooked tower known as Carroke Point.

image: munir

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