Blue Winged House

Blue Winged House

Luminous mind, bright devil
of absolute clusterings, of the upright noon – 
here we are at last, alone, without loneliness,
far from the savage city's delirium.

Just as a pure line describes the dove's curve,
as the fire honors and nourishes peace,
so you and I made this heavenly outcome.
The mind and love live naked in this house.

Furious dreams, rivers of bitter certainty,
decisions harder than the dreams of a hammer
flowed into the lovers' double cup,

until those twins were lifted into balance
on the scale: the mind and love, like two wings.
– So this transparency was built.

– Pablo Neruda


A horizontal line...boasted that she was the mistress of space: "From the moment when I was drawn..., this square was no longer a mere...surface: it became a world in which all things may find their places.  I am the shore of the sea, I am the meadow's horizon, I am a distant landscape, I am the angle between the earth and the wall, I am the step at the base of the temple, I am the line that separates high and low, near and far..."

A blue painted surface interrupted the line: "You are mistaken", said the blue.  "It is I, by placement within the square, who open the expanse of the waves, or the night sky, or the sinister shadow of a blind wall...I am the landscape, all landscapes, even those that lie in the souls of men: their sorrow, their consolation..."

But the horizontal line encountered figures and was broken, and in passing transformed them in a disquieting way.  And when the figures came to the blue patch they moved over it and behind it, and emerged from under its lower edge, as if unwilling to admit that it was a background.

"What are you doing?" protested the line and the blue.  "Can you not find your own positions in space?  What is this lack of respect for dimensions and for the cardinal points, the zenith, the nadir?"

"Truly", replied the figures, "we do not live in space, we live in time..."

For a moment the horizontal line and the blue plane fell silent, bemused.  Then the line spoke: "It is I, she said, who create time.  I divide the stratifications of the unconscious, I link the segments of memory..."

Said the blue, "Time is nothing but layers of colour in which objects are immersed..."

– Italo Calvino