And to the sun, silver rose, returning with report, the crack of lightning in a blue sky. Sweat poured from angry muscle red of surge and wood warmed in hands known of life given and death taken. Into this sapphire sky his fist rose, blooming an energy of darkness known not of man or earth. And again, what rose, fell, and what was heard echoed on the wind like distant thunder. And try as he might, as he did, as his breath ran like steam and his chest boiled of iron heated, the memory could not be purged or expunged or beaten into submission. Still, to hammer under a wilting sun nails of no regard, fences of no keep, felt good, good in the way of labor, and sweat, the kind no man pauses, no man questions.
2 comments:
Something about physical labor...sweat, to make your troubles seem smaller, even when one know that this feeling is temporary. AND, when you feel as though something is caused by you, that sweat and pain can be translated into a self induced pain...Not sure my point came across here, if not, ask, and maybe I can rephrase in the morning, when I'm more refreshed.
;-)
TIGHT HUGS...MWAH
Whether it was by suggestion or opinion, as I read the last part of this post, the thought was already present. State of mind and the reasons therefore partially aside, the scene you describe is enthralling for more than one reason. The simplicity of it in a meaning of life, back to basics, product of ones labour manner. To labour, to sweat, to stand between heaven and earth as living being. Wonderfully visual description, invigorating even just as reader. With the rest in mind, the flashes of light, the nails, the red and the warm, fist and bloom, thunder and steam and the inescapable, the force driving him, the scene entrances world entire with its visual impact and in the well of associated contemplations.
Incredible chapter - your abilities to capture the essence of emotion, to convey astounds me.
Again.
There is something about this chapter that reminds me of, and as I come to having to make the reference, I am less confident of how well I remember the phrasing, but the image is clear in my mind, as it was the day your words put it there, pockets (was it?), huddles of grey, upon the dock. Why the two should tie together in my mind, I am not sure, except the wealth of emotion witin. Like an iceberg, the 10% above the water is absolutely magnificent, and still one is aware this is the smaller portion. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow - just in case that was not obvious. :-D
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