Beauty has a cost. I’ll ponder that line. Always a quiet joy of discovery in reading your work Damon. I’m always trying to figure out your voice, its appeal. I think it may be the matter of factness of it, the lack of adornment. You’ve married your voice to the landscape you love.
I appreciate your notion that I've married my voice to the landscape. I wouldn't mind that. Maybe that's part of letting the good of the world come into us. I don't know. But sometimes the is-ness of a thing or a place is all we need to get right. It's never easy though, at least not for me, not ever.
"So, we vacated camp and drove the last dirt road at the end of the world all the way to its end. There were edges everywhere. The sun was ahead of us and divided, as it was, into liquid passages between the clouds that curled above the sea. A golden light filled the valley and in the moment banished any words I might have used to describe it. Yet here was a world fluent in light and gifts." These last passages felt so clean as an ending. Immediate analogies came to life of your father who you cared for in his last days and then Tore wanted to see his father's grave. The road coming to the end in a farther place than we can know. Still, in life, we dream of light and the gifts of it suspended in the suspense of departure. I enjoy your writing very much, Damon, though fishing anywhere but for light and goodness is all I've done. It does sound challenging to be that cold, but then, even as a child growing up in Ontario, we had our supremely fun snow days. Little mitts didn't stop the bite or boots with laces. Basically, dropped into New York City when I was ten, hooked and drawn in by different matter. Constance
Thank you, Constance, for this generous response to "Scrublands." I am happy that it brought you back to your days in the cold, though perhaps there is more warmth when seeing those days from here, from where we are now. I hope so. I hope there is more light and more grace.
There is. And has been for a very long time. It's been a wonderful and enriching life. I hope there is the same for for you and your family. Condolence regarding your father's recent death. I am glad you had time together. I believe in your journey, because your contributions offer us pride in their distinction and also your ability to share the distilled details with us. Happy Holidays. All best wishes, Consrance
The writing that resonates with me refuses to redeem or explain, and this piece does exactly that. I keep thinking about your hands working grease into boot leather, knowing these might be your last. Not dramatic but true. The weight of small gestures carrying everything we can't say: the way you don't talk about your father, the way wind becomes a fact you live inside rather than fight. I felt the cold morning, the patience of not hurrying, Tore's quiet company. And that ache of counting lasts while still walking. Thanks for the read.
Yes. I enjoyed the same image of greasing boots, and so much the identification with patience rather than mastery of the moments. Really like that idea, too, of counting lasts while still walking. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for your insights, Luciano. I value what you say about "the weight of small gestures carrying everything we can't say." That realization tells us about what we have lived or keeps us or touches us or devastates us. If nothing more, to see those gestures and perhaps to understand them is to give attention. Attention comes in many forms, but some of it comes with a little grace and a little forgiveness. I'll take that. We'll all be wearing our last pair of boot soon enough.
another wonderful journey into your world, damon. so many passages could have led to more. but you kept us in the moment and left it to us to go further. that to me is part of the brilliance of your writing. you allow us to find ourselves within your words.
Beauty has a cost. I’ll ponder that line. Always a quiet joy of discovery in reading your work Damon. I’m always trying to figure out your voice, its appeal. I think it may be the matter of factness of it, the lack of adornment. You’ve married your voice to the landscape you love.
I appreciate your notion that I've married my voice to the landscape. I wouldn't mind that. Maybe that's part of letting the good of the world come into us. I don't know. But sometimes the is-ness of a thing or a place is all we need to get right. It's never easy though, at least not for me, not ever.
"So, we vacated camp and drove the last dirt road at the end of the world all the way to its end. There were edges everywhere. The sun was ahead of us and divided, as it was, into liquid passages between the clouds that curled above the sea. A golden light filled the valley and in the moment banished any words I might have used to describe it. Yet here was a world fluent in light and gifts." These last passages felt so clean as an ending. Immediate analogies came to life of your father who you cared for in his last days and then Tore wanted to see his father's grave. The road coming to the end in a farther place than we can know. Still, in life, we dream of light and the gifts of it suspended in the suspense of departure. I enjoy your writing very much, Damon, though fishing anywhere but for light and goodness is all I've done. It does sound challenging to be that cold, but then, even as a child growing up in Ontario, we had our supremely fun snow days. Little mitts didn't stop the bite or boots with laces. Basically, dropped into New York City when I was ten, hooked and drawn in by different matter. Constance
Thank you, Constance, for this generous response to "Scrublands." I am happy that it brought you back to your days in the cold, though perhaps there is more warmth when seeing those days from here, from where we are now. I hope so. I hope there is more light and more grace.
There is. And has been for a very long time. It's been a wonderful and enriching life. I hope there is the same for for you and your family. Condolence regarding your father's recent death. I am glad you had time together. I believe in your journey, because your contributions offer us pride in their distinction and also your ability to share the distilled details with us. Happy Holidays. All best wishes, Consrance
Love this. That section about the boots and the dad really hit me!
Thank you, Sean. You are a man who knows about boots and dads. I hope they still keep you well.
The writing that resonates with me refuses to redeem or explain, and this piece does exactly that. I keep thinking about your hands working grease into boot leather, knowing these might be your last. Not dramatic but true. The weight of small gestures carrying everything we can't say: the way you don't talk about your father, the way wind becomes a fact you live inside rather than fight. I felt the cold morning, the patience of not hurrying, Tore's quiet company. And that ache of counting lasts while still walking. Thanks for the read.
Yes. I enjoyed the same image of greasing boots, and so much the identification with patience rather than mastery of the moments. Really like that idea, too, of counting lasts while still walking. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for your insights, Luciano. I value what you say about "the weight of small gestures carrying everything we can't say." That realization tells us about what we have lived or keeps us or touches us or devastates us. If nothing more, to see those gestures and perhaps to understand them is to give attention. Attention comes in many forms, but some of it comes with a little grace and a little forgiveness. I'll take that. We'll all be wearing our last pair of boot soon enough.
beautiful...thanks Damon
Thank you, Will. Much appreciated.
another wonderful journey into your world, damon. so many passages could have led to more. but you kept us in the moment and left it to us to go further. that to me is part of the brilliance of your writing. you allow us to find ourselves within your words.