3380. ETERNAL RECURRENCE AGAIN

ETERNAL RECURRENCE AGAIN

Everything around me is dark. I am seeing

things through a broken still-camera in my

heart. All things are dark and gloomy...

this darkness is looking good.

-

This big painting, by Velazquez, is

looming over my head : 'The Surrender

of the Dutch at Breda', or something like

that. Fires and pyres, the big, brown rump

of a horse, lances and spears, and then

that soldier, staring out at me. Brown

and blue, my heart again.

-

There is nothing more difficult to hide

than Fear  -  it makes us shake and

shudder, just with memories of our

days. I wouldn't know why, nor what

it's possibly worth. To be or not,

that question comes back, and the

fires seem still burning on Breda's

wharves  -  eternal recurrence again.

-

Instead. Instead, I want to be thinking

about 'Las Meninas'  -  'The Spinners',

also by Velazquez  -  the other picture

in my mind : the reflection of a King and

Queen in a stupid, awful mirror - who cares,

of that? - the painting within a painting - 'oh,

what is that?'' - the little, red jug held by

the maid, the little boy who kicks the dog,

and, the little girl, being handed that jug.

All this, like words; so much at once.

-

And who am I, that this matters? Traveling

time, five centuries near, to bespeak some

ancient and doddering painting : dumb Dutch,

bold Spaniard, doped Italian, all! Time stops,

and it happens again and again. Everything

around me is dark. I am seeing through a

broken still-camera in my heart. 

Eternal recurrence again.