Ophanim, the Vision of Wheels

by dschapman

82 inches of snow in Maine and the old schoolhouse is up to her gutter with it. I can imagine it like I am standing there now, magnetically re-aligned, and I bury my face in wall of snow and I hold it there, and I die.

When in the frosted hills the broad-winged birds first cast their hatchlings from their nests, falling backwards through a furious white universe, feathers ruffling and eyes opened wide, looking upwards without making a sound, the pointed heads of broken crags will rise to meet them in their bones, from their tails to their heads, and produce from peace one thousand pieces, red as scattered wine on snow.

The temperature rose and the snow turned to rain. Lightning flashed and the unmistakeable rumble of thunder followed. Sometimes I wonder if I will survive to see another storm or not, if I will even survive the next one. Maybe a tornado will pick me right up and deliver me to the steps in front of heaven’s gate, and I will witness with my blazing eyes the chariot of fire, 11 men, minstrels in flames with hands like bronze and kerosene.

A ship full of whale fat came in from the arctic and the whalers roamed through the port at night like pirates, fat on whale meat and practically rich. In the arctic, amongst ice, there are times where no one exists in the world at all, but the ghosts, who exist for miles; and the magnets spheres misalign, and a memory is lost, and something familiar begins to sound absurd; repeat your name, repeat your name, you become satiated. Absolutely unpresentable.

Today, a new song every minute. We drove for miles. The same songs over and over. We passed liquor stores on the side of the highway. The emptiness does not deter us. We felt fine.

And then, I started sculpting cement… What was happening?