So. All the best stories begin like that; don’t you think? And a deep breath – and so it starts. New worlds, big adventures. OK, maybe now I’ve raised false expectations … So, again. Here am I. In my mountain eyrie, loin des bruits du monde, writing. I write because I am. I write because … it proves that I am. Reassures me. Right? Right. Write!
I’ll give you a bit of the landscape. It’s alpine. It’s remote, but it’s lived-in – just. Here, I’m in my flat (it’s small; it’s a pocket handkerchief of a flat – but every inch of space in here is Mine; all Mine!). I’m inside, but I’m right up by the window. Beyond the window, the balcony. Beyond the balcony, Space. Mont Blanc is my neighbour to the west, and my word, it’s splendid. (Though it struck me today: I don’t look at it properly. I see it, yes. It’s breathtaking, yes. Wordworth and Coleridge? They’d have loved it. But do I really see it? Take it in; its many peaks; foothills, contours, colour and textures? No. I’m too lazy. I need a pair of binoculars. I need a crash course in patience and stillness! I will look properly; I’ve promised myself. I will! But not today. Another day, when I’ve the energy to be stiller …) So, that’s Mont Blanc to the west. And in the other direction – though I can’t see it; not from here; my windows look out westward – the ski resort. Empty. Even the cows’ve headed down the valley for the winter, bells and all. It’s the limbo time; the Inter-Saison, and the emptiness and silence is mindboggling. It’s not like wilderness emptiness; no: this is emptiness that’s built to be full. It’s pile-em up, cram-em small apartment blocks, jam-packed full of emptiness. It’s quite something. No-one, no-one at all, is here right now. Or, if they are, they’re experts in solitude. Or else they’re very, very lonely ...
OK, so there’s the ski resort. And beyond that, the mountain face. What will soon be the snow-front – but not yet. It’s green-grey; not so very long ago it was dotted with chestnut cows, but now it’s not. It was dotted with diggers, remoulding the pistes for the coming season – but now it’s not. It’s empty of summer flowers; it’s waiting for winter snow. It’s greeny grey; it’s murky as Kipling’s green-grey greasy Limpopo river. ‘C’est jolie, non?’, my boss said hopefully as he showed off the view over the resort. Non. It’s not pretty at all. The mountains, yes - in microcosm (stream, leaf, flower); in macrocosm (peak, valley, horizon), they’re beyond jolie; they’re sublime. But that particular outlook? No. You couldn’t call it pretty. It’s a perfectly good mountain with a sixties comprehensive school of low-rise ugliness squatting on it. Just waiting for snow to soften it.
So where was I? The landscape. There, that’s a piece of it; that’s enough for now. I’m sure it’ll come up again; you’ll see more of it in time. The mindscape: I’m not even going to attempt that just now; it’s too muddled for a snapshot, and a detailed exposition will bore you. Never mind you; it’ll bore me! And besides, it’s a slippery quicksand of a mindscape –no sooner is it articulated than it’s changed. So let’s leave the mindscape out of it.
Let’s stick to the facts. I’m here, it’s Wednesday. I’ve been here since Saturday night, but time’s twisted here: I’ve been here no time at all, and I’ve been here forever. One short dose of forever with all of its elements stripped of their proportions; all jostling for space in my head bigger and smaller than they should be. But stop me if this is starting to sound like a mindscape!
No comments:
Post a Comment