Where the Trees Dwell

Snow, frost on the face, the temperature is dropping. Out here you can still hear the faint sound of the machines but they are only a distant echo. Everything is muted by the atmosphere, thick and heavy. You struggle to walk through the woods. The snow is fifteen inches or more. In the fields it is whipping around fiercely. You recline against the pine tree to rest. You witness the silence. It feels like it is closing in.  You think that people have forgotten the silence. Noise, accumulation, consumption, the frenzy of speech, the multitude of signs schizophrenic in their ambiance: that is the order of the day. The simulacrum has even made a spectacle of nature – it has become a kind of theme park. But all of that is alien to the space where the trees dwell. Out here, there are the presences of the ‘old gods’ and if you are silent then you will hear them. The frozen stillness is luminous in its brilliance.




Published by fldwrk

I am a painter.

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