2/1 from Ambient 1
BY RACHEL HARKAI
This is the space between water and frozen water, where I woke on the morning of our first snow. Reveling in a change of season, in a change of scenery, I wrote a letter on beauty. But I had no motor to keep those tones going and now this frigid, cracking glass won’t leave. How does one sustain this? This is the space where I write it all down, where I try to remember, but can only freeze things, can only make them still. In this scene I stand over a sinkful of tresses, ice clings to the panes and later, I fall in love. When I had long hair, I could hide in it. In this scene drafts seep through your window. There are tiny tealights, my hands are too cold and we laugh and laugh. This hollow ring only fingers circling thin rims, a sustain I cannot capture. In this scene I am in the empty kitchen filling egg cartons with cold water. Here I am freezing things again. This is the space for low tones, for the strings of the old piano that, unraveled, rattle as I tiptoe across the floor—the music of a house asleep in winter.