write this
emmer effer
a pretend genius broadsuction
some days are better than none
WINTER
Kevin Wu
The shadow that is my body is put up against the sky, wider, and wider, as if to float away was something, and that frozenness is everything, white and near. Deep, bright, immemorial, winter is a place where funerals are kept, where a moment of deathliness comes nearer. Beneath the white oeuvre, painted by light hands, there is a sense of the relentlessness, sarcastic, naked, raw, biting at the snow, the wolf’s jaw grows red. I did not hear the fall of the snow, the whirl of the wind, as winter, dusk, and night, grows nearer. The stillness of death is everything, drawn in by dawn, with the glare of the day’s light, covering over the landscape, the snow falling on everything, in the dimness of the sky. The night, still near, howls remotely, in a frost that chills even the most indescribable body, with every tree and field wrapped up in clothes of snow. An aura of white shines, with no certain predilection for whether it is a day of good, or evil. Whether it is a day of good, or evil, with winter howling, laughing over the mute houses, and the people inside them, sleeping, speaking, saying things of which to come over the silences, of the winter months. I was an empty soul bearing witness to all the snow. I lay there, without a word to which to answer, I was all the silence, the whole world wants me to not speak. In my desolation I caught an image, of the many miles of summer, and in it I was alone, in my wintry months I was also a silence, in my good and evil, when evil descended upon on me I did not answer, even though it spoke loudly. I did not speak when evil spoke, in the winter months, because it was so dark, outside, when it had arrived, and when I looked up in fear, and could not answer… I could not answer because of the many secret things in me, that needs to be explained, out there, because being dark is the most inexplicable thing, as does the winter light, as it deepens, falls, follows, allows… I cavorted in evil’s domain, and as it stayed, my mind grew deeper and deeper, in a region that is of the utmost pain, and I fell into feverish dreams, where I fought for demons and monsters, for evil and dominion… And then, as I came out of the depths, rising into the light, I discovered that I had missed my weapon, my passion, and my pain. Who cares, for it was winter, and who cares about evil in winter, but the loveless, and the cruel… Evil and good came on me and I was unprepared, as an observer, it was more tumultuous than the storms of winter, winter evil, winter night, I called out to the servants of evil and good unaware, of their places, or years… It was on my mind the most understandable year, that winter, when dying became still, when all the warriors of good and evil stood at the crest of the valley, and were mute… When it broke, when the storm broke, they had that look, in their eyes, of the inevitability of something known, known, as death… In the cry of a swallow, in its wings, there is wordlessness, something like a breath comes out of it, good and evil, like men. Like men’s hate and love, warriors have something about them, in their armor, their battles are intensest to the shadow, and pain… I have drank in the snow of winter, watching good and evil descend, upon so many houses and streets, that it was impossible to see clearly, what the war was, what the dance was, what it was to want so much victory, and the wide breast of ambition, clearing and clearing… Wielding and wielding, the wheel turns so much to its heart, in winter, that I couldn’t help but see the desperation, or an attempt to survive the music, of the vain faces… Because of my words, because of my heart, which is broken, could not sound, could not sound, or whisper, or sigh, but because silence is everything, in winter’s solstice, the warrior’s lonely cry could not be heard…The warrior’s cry could not be heard, was he a warrior of good, or evil, of evil’s reaches, was he strong enough for the grasp of another warrior’s heart, his arms, when they fight, when they war, was it for death, or life… Was it for the blood of rivers, the tumult of the heart, warring, warring, and I was sitting there, I was sitting there, and then just like that, just like that, a song comes out of me…The winter song can be heard through the mountains, the valleys, suggesting of spring, it is clear and cold like the wind, and it goes far, so far, that one does not know where it comes from, where the song comes from, is it a part of winter itself, or does it come from one voice, one voice only… Having known the song of the valley and beyond, I come back to a knowledge that has to do with losing one’s self, among the masses of good and evil, the indistinct criers, the masks, the unexplainable. For they were once eminent like the word themselves, they were written in blocks, they knew their own fates, they did not sound out the literal meanings of their desperation, they did not understand their own desperate selves…Traveling through the land of good and evil, I saw, the masses streaming to and fro, and it was overwhelming, and the winter there, there were rivers that streamed through the land, which separated good from evil, and there were mountains where hid the troops, from each other, and great evil hovered above everything, and chanted revered words down to his sons, everything, everything, I am everything… In this land, where the ice flowed free, apart from all the dust, and dirt, and the filth, in the loneliness of the air there was something there, that apart from human recognition, it is something called the movement, birds felt it, insects felt it, it says that if you preferred death to dance, preferred dying to loveliness… When good rumbled, blasted their cannons in the air, allotted evil to move, to stride, march forward, so many steps, took aim, and shot, there was a transcendent loneliness to their moves, their desire to take so many lives, there was loneliness, overall, in so much as a move, again, there wasn’t too much indecision, indecision in their lives, in their hearts, again…In the winter world, in the cold, cold, night, they did not have a chance to relax, only to breathe, the air which was so clean, and breathlessness, being so old, both sides being so old, I saw how the good side loved its people, and how the evil side ruled, they took my innocence away, and left the snow to settle, I was muttering the words to a savior, a savior who did not appear…In winter, the savior did not appear, to good and evil, the likeness of his face was disappearing, to a rate faster than the water which fell, which fell like the waterfall, in the forest, of which there is no dominion. Dominion of forest, of birds, of fish, of insects. The cold ice was everywhere, solidifying the forest, reaching far into the body of the trees, I, in my house, thought of how cold the forest’s body was, and fell, (it was night), into sleep. While the winter rose, outside, and the wind rattled the bars of my house, and the deathly wind was enormous upon the frame of the building, and I slept, and slept…In the morning, there was light again, the birds flew again, the river ran again, uninhibited running quick and tumultuous, it was seen again. I remembered again how good and evil warred the night before, in the far away land, how I saw their fire and ice fused together in a pattern that is of hate, not love, and their call unanswered, fireless, in the wind, removed from all human existence, I was a warrior myself, that other year, without a war…She said, she said, winter is the day for dying, remember me, I don’t remember your winter eyes, ever, they are so dim, now, it is a day for denying everything given to us, and for dying. You don’t remember me, that day, we are both born during winter, anyhow, that month, year, decade, century… I looked so far past you, to the other side, to paradise, to a place where nothing exists except a little sadness, eyes, eyes, your dim eyes… Your dim eyes, and a day for dying, plus a little sadness, all in all, overall, nothing, except a procession, of good or evil, one doesn’t know, whether it is lighter than air, or heavy, like drops, brokenness, again, or poetry, one doesn’t know, really doesn’t know, tenderness again, will fall, will fall, again…I remember the days past gone by when your beauty floats past by, and the hearts, what moments there were, in the deep halls, your beauty wants nothing, but takes my breath away… And when you speak, you remind me of how hopeless I am, to be like this, to always be waiting for something, perhaps, for winter… Namelessness, the stranger, to travel across the landscape in winter, against the wind, against the loneliness of hope, hope, hope, all hope, a lone rider from evil dominion, his body cased in armor, roars, knowing of the deathly landscape, for him, to always be nameless was something valuable, understandable, comfortable, he would never leave the things that controlled him on the other side, the evil side.
He was, perhaps, a little too weak for evil, and dumber, than most, the things that were in him were better than most of them, he did not know of anything but sacrifice, and was trained to be savage, he had not known any love, love without selfishness, he was a thing on the march. He had heard of the wealth of the good, and how laughing they were, with merriment, and he sought them out to look at them, profoundly, like a human examining an insect, to see what they were, as if it were something odd, or obvious. He enjoyed nothing. But wanted to love the rising of the sun. In winter he was a stoic, at home in its encasement, like a fox.
The evil rider sought on and on, against the wintry lights, the eboreal sky, in the tantrum of winter, he was a lone rider, against so much snow, beneath, above him, in the rivers, on the trees, his darkness unencumbered, forever, like the love which rises above my house, with my broken heart, his nights, my music, forever…
If evil had so much love, whenever he has so much pain, it would all meld together, love and pain, and the charge of the warrior has become slow, and their silence was the language to nowhere, a place of fire, of rain. The evil rider says nothing, on he goes, past the plains, across valleys, with snow as his burden, his memory, he does not remember anything past the rituals of the night, the sleeping, his rising out into the day. The life that he led was endless, and it took strength to live it, endless strength, endless fortitude, endless striving. I also know of the evil rider in winter. His story is for the stranger in us, his namelessness, is in so many understanding’s pain, his story is one I would not listen to, in the end I would refuse to hear him. But his humanity… And his inhumanity… Like so many of theirs, is one which would not be understood by many. Of the many things he wanted to say, indecipherable, something about his war, something of his indecipherable childhood, indecipherable pain, indeed there were no possible words left.I spoke of so many of them, coming across the meadows to die for their lord, their weapons raised, the evil rider was like all of them, who saw that, in the distance there is a light which is impenetrable, impermeable, so majestic, so hypnotizing, and the aura of that light, and the god which lived in it, solemn, destructive, revered and known, everywhere…
We believed in everything, says the god, proclaiming victory, and the force which destroyed us, we will kill, namelessly, forever. There is nothing there but a kind of emptiness, and you weren’t there, if you were, we would kill you too. We kill kill kill. Destroy destroy destroy.And then I look out onto the landscape, from my house, in a mutedness that is everything. At the land, where good and evil dwelled, ate and sat, warred and died. I wait for an answer, to the questions of my life, why am I this way, why do I despair, why am I the man who is loveless, alone. And my dying dreams, why do they go this way, do they go this way, do they go this way… And the fervor of my life, why are they answerless, bending to the fever of tenderness, why do they not act. Acts, are they like words, do they smell of fervor, do the many suggestions of kindness mean anything, now. Am I big, now. Does the distance loom, now. And the moments of insufferable love, are they anything. Are they anything joyful. Are you penitent. To the god. Of suffering.
Of suffering. And there is so much light. In winter. That you can, that you can, almost, see, with my eyes nearly blind with tears, the pictures, the images, of candlelight, or perhaps, the view of the horizon, over it. To winter, with the landscape draped in snow, and bleakness, and the expanse of white. I wrote a letter to winter’s body, an ethereal blank of snow, a storm, ruled all my days… But the truth of it, when we speak of sorrow, or death, it is in winter’s arms, listening all my life, I have not heard of such words of extremes. We march, all our lives, to the warmth of the land. Winter, however, did not forget us.
Good and evil warred and died, in the middle of winter. What ever happens in the middle of winter? When I saw that warrior march toward me I thought of nothing but the indescribable distance between us, and the sound of silence hovered in the air. But was it I, or him, who did not know the other. Was it I, or him, who did not understand its stillness. When I thought of its bareness… When later, I thought of winter’s hands… Winter, winter, when winter cries… Winter, winter, where I slipped away…
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