The sky is enveloped, suffocated even, by an unearthly hue, which must necessarily be the case, since the sky is not the earth, nor would ever desire such a stifling status as that of gravity-squashed matter hanging in the freezing [there is hope, after all, in this chosen status of becoming, in contrast to the finality of the alternative, frozen, that is, being with a small b] wasteland. The women understand this instinctively. No, the sky is, and ever shall be, unearthly, true, & thank the Lord for small favors...

Then there is the other side of the debate, which states, and I paraphrase: the only fate worse than that of Atlas shouldering the sky is that of the sky itself, disgraced by its public vulnerability. To be, and yet to be nothing, still, one can argue that this, at least, is something to talk about. The women need their conversation pieces under the heat lamps. Without this dependable reserve of life preservers, the journey from shipwreck to desolate Oceania with its spotted mounds of dirt would be truly unbearable. We try to accommodate a diverse range of sensibilities, & Lord knows it isn't always easy...

Which side is correct, or even which is which, is a matter of disambiguation for another day. Today the long shadows imply other concerns. The painterly tone of quiet contemplation suffused with a hint of memento mori, stalled out of the gates, will have to wait until another day; the writer feels that today the words have regained the upper hand, yet he knows that a good general is never put off by a few minor, strategic withdrawals. The master plan may even require them as periodic sacrifices to a god I shudder to compose even a single sentence in reference to, as I put little store in entities the marvelousness of whom does not even warrant a capital letter at the beginning of their designators...

The women sit under surrogate suns, their frizzes condemned to sizzle, their sons to wait & play...


James Bradley