I
never do because the image I hold of myself on a hill, gazing into
the distance, is in the mind, bidden sometimes from memory of
admiring incredible views from walls, from hills, from up high, into
and across a life-filled landscape – a swathe of green or roiling
waves, a mist of cloud or stretch of sand. Perfect, with very few two
or four-legged animals blotting it. An uncongested space where
breathing is easy, where any breeze is the wind on your face and not
somebody else's breath, where the sun is pleasantly warm, and the
land nourished, blossoming; not parched or drowning, subsiding.
Views
are never as romantic as that though, in reality; only in paintings.
Even the bleak look romantic then.
Still,
I place myself at the top of this imaginary hill and think 'What can
I see?', 'What would I like to see?', 'Where would this hill be?'
The
last is the easier to answer. For this hill wouldn't have any
location; it would just be there, and once I'd clambered to the top
I'd be able to see whatever I wished, even if it was just to see for
miles...and miles, with nothing very significant to attract the eye.
Why? Because it's rare that I can do that now. The eye is always
confronted by a structure. The sky has been filled.
It's
a liberating feeling to look out, out, out; that, too, these days, is
slowly being taken away. The natural environment eaten up: paved
over, dug up, built in, built up, built down.
To
spot nothing, maybe a bird or butterfly or glinting aeroplane, is
special, a memory collector's item. Am I in the minority here?
I'm
thankful, no, grateful,
that I banked a few memories then. Caught them in a net à
la Nabokov.
Is
my reading memory serving me ill? I'm sure I read that somewhere
about him...thinking that it was an interesting fact and might come
in useful one day. Well, it has, if only for the image, even if
dubious or incorrect. Net; memories banked. Fewer of us will have
them soon, the memories, and possibly the memory.
Hills
with views, where they still exist – the hill and the view – are
less enjoyed for what they are, taken in with eyes. The camera phone
is the eye; the human eye has lost its function. The human body is
depreciating, catching up with the earth which has been unappreciated
for too long. The song of the earth has died. That song was always
meant to die, so a new song could be born.
The
song of the lion; Aslan.
Perhaps
the hill I climb is set in a world, a time like that. I walk through
a door in my mind, then face an upward climb, never knowing what
scene, when I reach the crown, will lie before me.
Will
it be empty, unpeopled? Will it be filled with men, polishing armour,
or bloodied and engaged in battle? Will it be tranquil, have a
holiday feel? Or stormy, womenfolk watching for their men, out in
their boats, to return? The sea, never far from my mind.
Though
perhaps it will be a green country, with parks, picnics and parasols;
or a yellow land, with desert sand and a scorching sun. A view
entirely different, and indifferent, to what I wanted.
I
can only ask. The mind does not have to conjure up what I'd like to
see, what I think it should be. It knows better; it gives me what I
need, although never without some effort on my part. The ascent
varies. Sometimes as I near the summit I could almost be crawling. My
hands clutch at tufts of grass and I gasp like a fish or a beast
winded from the chase. But it's worth it for the reward even if I
don't know, for sure, what it will be. Even if the sight is not a
pleasant one. A sight seen can never be removed, real or imaginary,
even if you're removed from it.
Picture credit: Louise loved to climb to the summit on one of the barren hills flanking the river and stand, 1907, N. C. Wyeth (source: WikiArt).
This post was written in 2019.
