Blue Lachrymose Twilight of the Yak
Divorced from the larger social context
of the day, it appears like an antique
prophet with a beard formed of wires
and birdstraw, but is only the yak,
one limpid tear running down its
hoary cheek. When a viewer questions
whether yaks can cry, a chorus of
shhhhh arises, a white noise settling
over the blue Mongolian steppes that
stretch in every
direction, unbroken by yurts or
any sign of other yaks. Perhaps
the yak is lonely, says another viewer,
and the others murmur their assent.
The sun sets behind it. The yak
may be a metaphor for death. We are all
alone then. But, says another, the steppes
are lovely in their blue austerity,
burnished in the
slanting light. The end of things is beautiful,
too. Again, a murmur of assent. Meanwhile,
the yak, its single tear now soaked into
the steppe, lies down, head nested
in its birdstraw beard. Who could ever
be lonely, the yak dreams into the
gallery, when all these noises, meanings
abraid the steppes? The sun agrees;
these people know no end to speech, nor any
message melting, yolklike,
into the humid night, silently expressed.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
