by Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
This wasn’t a statement of nuance, not more hubris, but a no-nonsense-straight-up-and-ruled-narrow categorical utterance. From The Observatory on the outpost in the deep south of The Weatherlies. The Observatory was an ode to the past, a square-patch abode that looked and felt like Thoreau’s hideout, its henna-colored myth now a fading mental picture, its cabin more conspicuous in the winter when the trees had shed their leaves, and its boxy profile cut through the evergreens, the spare forest of vertical lines. It was the snow that Resident 97 missed, the way it seemed to fall from somewhere no one could see, for no reason other than to turn everything into a duvet of wan waves, Walden Pond like the soft curves in one’s palm, the sun line on it running in an opposite spray from below the ring finger, to still variegate, out into the other six webbed appendages, following unseen capillaries.
Last updated May 31, 2011