Wasatch, snow-blessed mountains, remote for remaining on
retinas in the South
You
remember nothing until the forgetting has begun. Remoteness is not about geography. A retarded peacock would know the West is not
the South, especially if the West decided to have snow three days before the
end of April, the cruelest month according to Mr. Eliot. But Mr. Eliot was dead wrong. Christ is not a tiger nor is John the Baptist
a polar bear.
The mountains are gray-white and purple and lovely at 7:12
a.m. when you have your daily aesthetic experience. Fresh. The air is fresh fresh, very very remote and
very very distinct from the smell of life in New Orleans. This is Utah, much younger and much cleaner
than Louisiana and its Afro-Cajun crazy swamps and redeemed reptiles pissing in
the dawn. This is Utah, the property of
Utes transformed by flinty Mormons. The
Chinese ink-wash of Utah mountains is as unattainable as the normal on Canal
Street after or before the Storm. Thank
God, Salt Lake City shall have no flood until the telos of global warming is a
fact and not a theory.
