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Porter

Porter Mountain, Adirondacks, NY.
It's a monotone world. Since I started on the trail, everything has been white snow, gray rock, dark forest. Only a baby blue sky softens the starkness of the landscape. But I'm not in the mood for softness. I am on the second leg of my trip. Just under the cliff , lower right, is the trail. Almost a tunnel of snow and branches, only occasionally do we get an outcrop like this, a door of sorts, with a view. In this case, from the upslope of Porter Mountain. An appropriate name, I am thinking, for maybe I'm somewhat of a porter myself. A guide. For what do I do but open the door, comment on the background, offer insights? And perhaps you will be distracted from your own thoughts for a time, gazing at the austerity of it all. There is no wind, but the cold is hard, blunt. Crystals float, and flicker when the sun hits them right. It hurts to breathe. I am surrounded by old snow, crusty and sharp. It has accumulated, frozen, and then refrozen until it is cement. It weighs heavy on everything. When the world we know has turned cold, we wait for the light to warm us. Every day is a new promise that maybe the balance of nature has changed. Every day we think we'll be freed of what encases us. Every day we are taken in, every day we are deceived, every day we build another layer of cold to insulate us, to protect us, from an uncaring world. And on what day does every day end? I am not in the mood for softness. Sometimes things are black and white. A door is just a door; you see what you see, I see what the doorkeeper sees. I may stay awhile, or i may go, but close it behind you when you leave.

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Filename
Porter
Copyright
©Ray Palmer no usage without written permissions
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2048x1363 / 2.4MB
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Black + White
Porter Mountain, Adirondacks, NY. <br /> It's a monotone world. Since I started on the trail, everything has been white snow, gray rock, dark forest. Only a baby blue sky softens the starkness of the landscape. But I'm not in the mood for softness. I am on the second leg of my trip. Just under the cliff , lower right, is the trail. Almost a tunnel of snow and branches, only occasionally do we get an outcrop like this, a door of sorts, with a view. In this case, from the upslope of Porter Mountain. An appropriate name, I am thinking, for maybe I'm somewhat of a porter myself. A guide. For what do I do but open the door, comment on the background, offer insights? And perhaps you will be distracted from your own thoughts for a time, gazing at the austerity of it all. There is no wind, but the cold is hard, blunt. Crystals float, and flicker when the sun hits them right. It hurts to breathe. I am surrounded by old snow, crusty and sharp. It has accumulated, frozen, and then refrozen until it is cement. It weighs heavy on everything. When the world we know has turned cold, we wait for the light to warm us. Every day is a new promise that maybe the balance of nature has changed. Every day we think we'll be freed of what encases us. Every day we are taken in, every day we are deceived, every day we build another layer of cold to insulate us, to protect us, from an uncaring world. And on what day does every day end? I am not in the mood for softness. Sometimes things are black and white. A door is just a door; you see what you see, I see what the doorkeeper sees. I may stay awhile, or i may go, but close it behind you when you leave.
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