CHARLES DANBY








WRITING





[WHITENESS #12]

White ran throughout. The apocalypse had not come and birds flew overhead, unmarked in the grey sky and lost in falling water. The beat intensified in the afternoon air and the penetrating brightness pulled shadows from objects, plants grew horizontally from cracked walls through dirty screens of white glazed bricks. Dreaming kept me awake and here among the stones lengthening shadows were drawn from the fading light. Beyond me L was hardwired into another hypnotic world, a peripheral parallel airless space without being or prophecy. Touch sliding, light reloading. In the encased open he found himself in and out of time and some way off K danced silently. Later they moved together between stagnant stones whose origins like them lay elsewhere, extracted, permanently active. Immutably mobile for centuries their touch was a passing of rock. And through untruth the moment was complicit to their predicament.

Between mountains and slanted rain the cerulean land bit to a deeper hue. L no longer traversed the upright stones but instead an orchard of apples and rosehip. He thought of Inazo Nitobe, of Japanese stich and of the strangeness of Komatsu in the Park. Alone K danced silently by the lake oblivious to the Villa and its cut lake wall. Her movements mimicked those of the night crisscrossing the squares of a chessboard. She wasn’t in a state to wonder and her mind had gone but flashes of bright plastic parangole weighted her swaying arms and sped her twisting body. By the waterfront, she danced across rectangular patches of green and through slender uprights. Turning she pulled her hands behind her body across and out around the corner of the building, absorbing its whiteness and the linearity of its outward surfaces. She thought about swimming and heard the voices of dogs barking in the distance. Inside she saw silver ships and the retreating Athabasca caught by the sharpness of its cracking and popping ice. [2015-17]