The ritual of rolling whole hot bites of the pot pies of winter’s daily sup on the tongue, whistling out the steam and sucking in the wind, in the huddling culture of the far north, more northerly than imagination’s trespass and which without we would have no myths of those ancient glaciers which in memory threaten our intemperate present;
in such a place where the lands are a perpetually renewed blank page of unbroken snow, they roll on watering wet tongues hot spiced pastries salty with the flesh of the earth;
in it is metaphor and ritual, in it is self and world.
In the dark and in the snowy silences that blanket both day and night the time between meals is measured in tea, and thus intake grounds the body to the land and the air and the springs which freeze and creep icily through the bedrock, swelling and sifting the mineral finery of the depths into the water one draws for both tea and dough for the pastry which accompanies it, the same which waters the livestock from whom one draws out sweetbreads and gratifies the hearth’s fire by sacrificing the little scrub birthed by the lightbox heavens upon the parched soils of the rolling horizons.
Taking spit like the salty ocean of species and setting upon it that volcanic moment of the lived Earth, its herbs and spices and horned life-fires that gambol over tundra or sprout from root and gather against the bluster;
we find ourselves returned to earth and animal and vegetable and in drinking root-teas glinting with micaflake one varnishes over the course of decades teeth dressed as though in gold which grin out from graves when comes the time to divest each passed self of all that it has taken and return one’s own flesh to the pots which in simmering feed every successive generation;
in our history of civility and the undoing of the earth through it is the world, exterior, denied;
to lo and such a state as this which makes and sets us upon the unified variety of denial, for beyond the walls of this solitary house, a speck upon the blank plain, none shall venture;
to this container of slatted wood and no nail to speak of for our bounds are puzzled into one another, into this space likewise none shall venture and is there more than one of this place?
is its isolation its uniqueness? is its invention of itself its madness?
This is one’s box, three walls and no roof: the winds greet the hearth fire and no windows frame the view. This is one’s box, of no names nor history, erased as it is on the blanketing white winds.
Huddle near and take the pastry and savor its meats and know one’s own history: to such as this, to another generation of quiet slaughter, one bids you welcome.
Roll up your sleeves, you.
So says the one come from the white fields, that vast snowfall redeeming itself every hour, unspoilt by any venture of any individual from any given point: its origin is perpetual, its context vast and uncomplicated by its undifferentiated purity.
Roll up your sleeves, you, and you do so though you do not see any visiting figure in the bounds of your three puzzlelocked walls of balsa so light that every gust brings the structure to trembling: where did such wood come from in this place of perpetual and blank origination?
No such sun nor water would such wood sup upon here in this vast lightbox sky that marries the ground beneath it as though the halved horizons were not so much lovers but conjoined in a perverse twinnery that defied even planetary gravity, the snows shining back at the sky like the fuller moon from the sun yet here the night and day know no difference and instead there is only the ongoing waver between lighter and darker, neither ever fully itself and merely a weaker borrowing of something never strong enough to be its embodied opposition;
Roll up your sleeves and bear the wind, and know it, and roll back the lids of your eyes and let freeze and water in protest these gleaming orbs of your acuity, bear it all and make your perception naked to the raw and take in like kind the smoke from your smoldering hearth and the whipping winds that shall bear the punishment of remaining in this whiteness:
Venture forth, and roll up your sleeves and learn to sweat until wet in this frigid air and turn yourself into a statue in your inaction and your inaction shall be both threat and punishment and furthermore your suicide as this lightbox executes your bodily estate into mummified stupor.
Roll up your sleeves and know the stranger who comes with no body and instead creeps into your skin and slivers through your veins and let rise your hackles and as a waterbody freezes to preserve the silvered lives flashing in its depths, die and therefore come to know life.
Roll up your sleeves and know the wind and the snow and the smoldering hearthfire which is your perfume and your chrism in its glowing embers which dress in cauterized glory the marks which demarcate your usefulness in limb and procreation and thought and voice and inhalation and every sense which you can come to think of, all seven senses of reception and extension.
Roll up your sleeves or bettermore abandon your separation from the brutality which had made you and bleed into these winds and whiteness and walk out from these meager puzzlelocked walls which funnels the howling bluster into the heart which fights and flickers against its own fuel and know yourself unto the void and find in it the unbeknownst, find in it the song of your longing and find in it the memories of unmet ancestors and in its delusion lose the shackle of this self which you believe you are and come to know the vast expanse of your possibility and yet in knowing die to action and die to possibility and be born to ubiquitous presence instead.