The brown hues stand in contrast to the other Van Goghs in the room. The lone figure on horseback moves across a sere earth, the sodden ruts. Above, the sky emits a light -preternaturally radiant- not reaching the bowed human figure.
I drink matcha from an earthen bowl. Slowly, a familiar warmth suffuses me. Clarity emerges. The senses enliven. I call a friend. Later, more tea; this time, an oolong I share with E.
The day ripens, and the moments connect.
In an unexpected way that never fails to jar
it comes through with an immediacy:
a photo of faces still known to me
cousins now grown with their children
on a grainy surface of facebook pixels
a head caught averted in a procession of black
my father making the trip over in time
placing a bough for his brother.
John Fowles, in his essayistic gem, The Tree, touches on the unconscious as a wellspring of creativity. He uses the woods as a metaphor, calling it a green chaos.
We venture into the green chaos with trepidation and exhilaration, not quite sure of what we will find there.
Likewise, each night we dream, plunged into our individual unconscious -our chaos- to be imbued with images that linger with us well into our waking hours. These images provoke associations, and we follow them on a journey where the destination is only revealed upon our reaching it.