Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski
A walk with glorious sun locked in a deathly battle with thick fog coming from English Bay over the beautiful little streets in Vancouver’s West End.
Battle of Light and Darkness? No, no, no! Nothing of that sort. Fog has nothing of darkness. Au contraire, mon ami. You see, fog is full of light, light that is powerfully condensed, weaved very tightly onto amazing arrases, where you can see all the shadows of shapes, a promise of something that might become. Reality not fully realized, not fully described. A poem, from which some of the ink evaporated, bleached out and you can see only some of the words – the rest of the lines, the stanzas are left to the reader’s imagination. Ha! You are being allowed to finish someone else’s poem; composing anew a song you remember only faintly, fleetingly, few cords perhaps? Painting a picture that another painter only sketched with just few strokes of a pencil?
That is fog: a promise of shapes, colours. It asks you to be brave in your own creation, your own enormous palette of colours, sounds, and visions. To be a god! Creator! From dust to form. Not a mere believer, follower. Take the steering wheel in your own hands, follow your chart to navigate to lands and islands unspoiled, with birds made from rainbows, beaches with sand made of pure white pearls and fruits, that taste like lips of someone that you love.
Fog – the master of deception or Demiurge of Land of Dreams?!
Me? I will take my walk through my Mole Hill by Nelson Park in West End. But remember: a Mole Hill could easily be someone’s Mont Blanc. In a fog, of course.
> > Pogwarki < < 