Just as mist, a kiss, and death clear the space for parting, softly, softly, and as dew gathers, perilously, on a blade of grass that cannot bear its fall, then falls, so too we part imperfectly, always leaving and leaving always arms, perhaps, that reach past the ghosts that are their yearning, voices that decay in shrouded static, a glass of water on an empty table still trembling and trembling still with the emptiness that has just passed through an empty room.
Our longing resounds like this foghorn through the mist which gathers its density into its loss. It raises shivers, seethes through flesh, grace departed, mist depressed. Our longing compounds with that through which we long as a light lost in some dark forest, and lightly, lost, trees, moss, and tangled vines reach out to soothe our flight, but we trip, we run, we can do nothing but flee from this darkness that pursues us, breathlessly chased by this darkness that is only the promise of rest, ease, and relief.
Death is a gift that we cannot return. Nor can we turn to what always turns away from us, entangling us further in this labirynth without exit or escape.
Of course, Foghorn’s Tomasz Turski knows this as well as Have a Nice Life, Drowse, and Jesu, that what is beyond can only be glimpsed in that other night of its disappearance.
Like Angelo Badalamenti relaying David Lynch’s urging to “just get me into that beautiful darkness with the soft wind,” it is very sad. It is very beautiful. I can see her. It is tearing my heart out.
Watch and listen to the glimpse of death’s disappearance.
Now go back into the dark woods.
Order Thanatos below, out August 9 from Opus Elefantum.
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