If I trace the line of the mountains, it is likeness enough to the line that any mountains make. Even the hills, far away, even little clumps of blackened snow on the side of the road. It is a silhouette to count on, that I can be greater than or consumed by, as I choose, because I see it always and don’t need to understand. With just this line I see the mountain, much more so than when I touch it and climb it and look out over all the things I’m made to feel I know.
Because I see these things but do not know.
I climb, I breathe heavy and ascend, ascend something so unlike my own body and so much of the earth that even living upon it I cannot fathom it. Ascend until it is mine. Until I know it and it is nothing. Here, the fog and the blue and the pulse in my feet are bigger than the mound of earth under my pulsing feet. And here I become also unlike my own body and also unlike earth, and I am far away and unlike anything I know and this is where I come to see the shapeless things that hover in on the air I breathe unthinkingly.
Like condensation, and the clarity of his fingernails, and the way playing Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies feels like drawing the line that mountains make. And I wonder, if I hold a piece of photographic paper tight tight tight against my chest in the sun will it show me something? If I think of your face long enough will I see it, will some medium come down like cold fog on the hills or a piece of paper and show me something beautiful that I cannot know because it isn’t here on the mountain, because I saw it yesterday and that is not enough…