III. FOREPLAY IN RED AND WHITE

FOREPLAY IN RED AND WHITE

Dark. Darker. Wet. Slippery. Follow the headlights. Ascending. Lanes moving so slowly. Then blocked. The truck on the left side moves backwards. The car on the right veers close. Closer. What . . . two inches. Less than that. No space forward. Flashing stoplights. From behind – beaming headlights. The rain starts again. Heavier this time. Hands still clutched to the steering wheel. Gloved. Dark green leather. Radio off. Doesn’t make sense any longer. The windshield wipers move faster. Frantic unleashed bladey mechanical hands. Relentless. As vulnerable as warm ones. Even more so . . . They divide the night out there in even dark brown sections. Frequently lit by blurred sodium lights. Equally sliced sections in burnt sienna. The brown and the wet don’t go together. Don’t belong to one another. Don’t make sense . . . But still, those strict cuts come again and again, slightly modified by the slight differences, ignited by the light’s ephemeral alternating.

Somewhere in the country. That’s how light breaks the news of time passing. How many sliced up portions of unabridged contortions will it take to get away. No clue. Counting. Ridiculous. There . . . small, imperceptible changes and shifts will modify the incredulous march of presentness harassed by its own inevitable fractal limitations. There is a sound of motion.

But who or what is moving. Everything is. As always. So many wheels. Stuck together. Now this togetherness is breaking apart. For how long . . . Right now . . . The stoplight in front moves forward. Three inches . . . four . . . a whole foot. There. A yard already. The reflections of lights on the right spell “push”. Pushers push calls for overpushing and forward and sideways. This half an inch makes the difference. They know it too, indeed. Slow . . . slower . . . Almost full stop. As if this non-moving threesome mechanical clutter agitates the darkness outside. Sleet. The wind forces it from right to left. Gets thicker. Heavier. It starts to swirl. Counterclockwise. Wheels move again. All restricted from the left. There is a wall there. Can’t be outmaneuvered or pushed . . . Walls are unpushable. The sound of falling ice needles hisses on the top of the hood. Can’t be an overpass. It’s something else . . . The swirl of sleet doubles its speed. A vortex of iciness descends vigorously with sharper contrast. Now all the wheels have somehow found a way to find the minimal but exact distance that would allow them to maneuver sideways and counterclockwise in the same time. As if they are following or they’ve been forced to do that by the sleet’s increasing vortex. Unprecedented swirl liberates slowly and smoothly those stuck vehicles. Unlocks the traffic trap they’ve been sucked into.

Ascending. Higher. Way above the brown. Where white is really white. Where snow is whiter than the white. Where the white demands rupture. For some imminent break. There it is . . . Right on top of the rock. Spread out on its back. Split up. Wide open – the mink. Still alive. Pulsating soundlessly. Blood gushing out of this breathing wound. It saturates the white powder caressing his butchered flesh. Is it aware of those three witnesses contemplating his contrasting agony? So red . . .

So white . . . So bright. Vivid. Unapologetically natural. Demanding sensitivity of purified tonality. Irretrievable blood sprinkler getting in the way . . . crossing the wind’s thin shadow. Inward-turned expression in the mink’s eyes. Ultra-red rays of despair. Channeled upon different eyes. Pain’s eyes know better. Crimson tears roll slower. Red’s superiority emanates from the trembling axed mark on the powdered rock. Tiny black grave bursting with expiring life. Regardless, the colors – impression and representation are united by ultimate suffering. The boundaries of flesh have been utterly broken. The mink’s form deformed. Deformation strongly supported by the immediate call of blood running.
. . . .

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