The Door
There is a holy place where an impossible feeling resides. I used to name it euphoria, but it is not that, in the way moderns use it. It is the natural joy of many organisms, and now I see that it is not only human, but is everywhere. The cat turning over in the dusty sun, the swan hooting and puffing, the moment when the chords resolve only to suddenly suspend again, as in late Bach or early Björk. It is when the spirit descends, or when the guest arrives unbidden and stands stubbornly horned and pelt-clad at my side. This is where LeGuin wrote from, where Liz Fraser sang from and Pina Bausch danced from. It is where James Turrell makes his light and where Howard Hodgkin took five years to make one moss green mark. It is the mouth of an open volcano, the mud and ashes of my camp at first light. We wish to reside here, but we cannot stay. It is a paradox: a place which visits us which we as selves cannot visit.
First published here with full transcript, notes and more images, October 23rd 2023.
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