Monday, August 11, 2008

Race


The world spills before me in a biblical configuration of cloud and colour and light and deep, roiling dark. Sitting in the wooden seats at Woodbine, I feel as if I could reach out and grasp the sweep of City before me. Building spires sway insubstantial in the distant landscape, embraced by the swollen, restless underbodies of cloud and mist. Yet to the left, light spills out through clouds tinged pale white and streams to the ground below, translucent and sparkling, splashing up a rainbow of refracted hope back into the lowering sky. Ribbons of dark waver and quiver to the right, vomiting thick streams of moisture capriciously, while a mere street over, cerulean blue peaks through and exhales warm summer breath in a humid mist.

The horses pound past, the thud of hooves distant and insubstantial in the drifting sky, jockeys clinging like burrs to a slip of saddle, bodies moving rhythmically and perfectly with the undulating song of speed. Colours in the muted twilight of a summer storm are wavering and insubstantial, flash of red and yellow, the dark bay of straining muscle, flicker of deep royal blue.

A cool mist eddies around us, swirling pale wisps of certitude on the reality of sky and track. Light flickers in the distance as lightning among angry clouds grumbles sparks into the uncertain sky. Turning slightly, I drink in the pouring golden stream of sun that spills along an eastern shore, sparking painful clarity from the distant lake, obscured a scant quarter turn away from its painful beauty by the incessant pounding of the endless rain which embraces this, the summer of our discontent.

I find this capricious summer reflects well my own stormy emotions, which swing from the thunderous cacophony of rage and thunder to pockets of perfect encapsulated time, where I can stand and gaze into the painful intensity of a blue sky and find a measure of peace.

I’m not sure any more whether it is age, experience, fractured emotions or simply temper that finds me increasingly reluctant to reach within and find forgiveness for the stupidity that seems to run rampant through the dreary reality of days. I find even my forays into escapism in people’s words online no longer provide solace or even a measure of contentment but instead, restless, I find myself turning ever inward, seeking within a damaged mind a trickle of hope.
There are only a very few (and you know who you are) who I still seek each day, finding in their words, their insight and erudite meanderings, pleasure and a sense of companionship as well as a measure of spiritual solace.

My tolerance levels for the other 99% of what is out here are almost nonexistent and I find myself constantly running herd on words which crowd and fight behind lips zipped tight against pointless meanderings or counterarguments to silly speculations and illiterate ramblings. Not for one moment do I believe my own pap is any better, but what is palatable in small doses becomes toxic in depth.

I have always kept tight words which might wound or elucidate, words which can illuminate or rend, I find even my online voice is still these days. Where the need to vomit forth the prurient emotions of a tortured soul once found relief in the pointless tap tap tapping of key and the mouse scratch of virtual ink, I no longer feel a desire to even try to understand the inexplicable curiosity of middle-aged angst.

I watch as the horses, slender necks arched and nervous, sweat sheening on healthy flanks, trot to the start as the next race begins, their pony outriders soothing companions to overbred sensibilities, impossibly slender legs moving restlessly, great hearts beating strongly as the adrenalin starts to surge.

I breathe deep the mist-laden air, drawing the smell of rain and fractured sunshine deep within my lungs and begrudge the 20th Century necessity of being so far from the reality of sinew and flank, of sharp flashing hooves and the pungent, sharp smell of competition. I want to be down right at the rail, and feel deep within my bones, the pounding of these beautiful creatures, to close my eyes and feel the hot wild breath of their passage.

Instead, I sit, forlorn, isolated in an antiseptic creation of man-made reality and watch a panorama unfold that holds no touch of reality but instead passes before me like a kaleidoscope of want.

1 comment:

Buffalo said...

I like the way you juxtapose, intermingle, your environment with your thoughts.