Re: I want to be Outside
Posted: Fri Nov 08, 2013 8:06 pm
There exists a secret language of the mountain…Waiting to be read.
Sometimes strange letters are written outsized on angular cliff faces, sculpted prominently, black lines streaking across and over rust-colored granite.
You sporadically glimpse other mythical figures/symbols, either man or nature-printed, scribed into the bark of many older trees, distinct.
There is more to its language too, all quite prominent… really. Notice the weird and wonderful punctuation racing across azure skies – fleeting figures temporarily revealed in the cumulous. Seldom revealing whole sentences, the verbs (action words) are usually reflected back from the waters, the dancing eddies, purples and browns, golds and silver flecks. Glacier-polished walls provide the framework upon where the words are written. Waterfalls stand out like neon signs, the whites demanding attention. The shadows provide the contrast and the Alpenglow, the moving lines racing up the cliffs at sunset; expose themselves as yet another dialect…yes, there is much to translate. Over time, an experienced woodsman learns to recognize the letters; soon assembles them into words, and finally discovers the complex sentences blatant, once impossible to fathom, now, for a select few, becoming clear - able to be read easily.
A problem arises when new visitors try to read these clues without taking due time…not realizing that it takes years to be able to decipher the subtle letters written…Decades more to learn how to read the text. The mountain tells a long-term tale where individual wants are meaningless, schedules are fleeting, and days are but pointless pauses to a more complex theme.
Many make the mistake of inserting personal agendas into the mountain’s plot line: big mistake. The mountain only dictates the story and seldom listens… to anyone. The mountain cares nothing about egos or individual wants. The mountain writes the story, is the story, and will always be the story, not the other way around. The mountain is the host, sets the rules, and usually gives freely. It makes its own weather, reveals its glories, (sometimes openly, other times begrudgingly), and occasionally takes lives. It is the best of all stories, and sometimes the worst too.
Sometimes strange letters are written outsized on angular cliff faces, sculpted prominently, black lines streaking across and over rust-colored granite.
You sporadically glimpse other mythical figures/symbols, either man or nature-printed, scribed into the bark of many older trees, distinct.
There is more to its language too, all quite prominent… really. Notice the weird and wonderful punctuation racing across azure skies – fleeting figures temporarily revealed in the cumulous. Seldom revealing whole sentences, the verbs (action words) are usually reflected back from the waters, the dancing eddies, purples and browns, golds and silver flecks. Glacier-polished walls provide the framework upon where the words are written. Waterfalls stand out like neon signs, the whites demanding attention. The shadows provide the contrast and the Alpenglow, the moving lines racing up the cliffs at sunset; expose themselves as yet another dialect…yes, there is much to translate. Over time, an experienced woodsman learns to recognize the letters; soon assembles them into words, and finally discovers the complex sentences blatant, once impossible to fathom, now, for a select few, becoming clear - able to be read easily.
A problem arises when new visitors try to read these clues without taking due time…not realizing that it takes years to be able to decipher the subtle letters written…Decades more to learn how to read the text. The mountain tells a long-term tale where individual wants are meaningless, schedules are fleeting, and days are but pointless pauses to a more complex theme.
Many make the mistake of inserting personal agendas into the mountain’s plot line: big mistake. The mountain only dictates the story and seldom listens… to anyone. The mountain cares nothing about egos or individual wants. The mountain writes the story, is the story, and will always be the story, not the other way around. The mountain is the host, sets the rules, and usually gives freely. It makes its own weather, reveals its glories, (sometimes openly, other times begrudgingly), and occasionally takes lives. It is the best of all stories, and sometimes the worst too.