Aesthetics in April
Wasatch, snow-blessed mountains
The mindscape. You remember nothing until the forgetting has begun. Remoteness from reason is not geography, for even a retarded peacock would know the West is not the South. Especially if the West decided to have three days of snow in April, the cruelest month in Mr. Eliot's imagination. But he is dead and wrong. November beats out April in the realm of mental torment. Christ is not a tiger, nor is St. John the Baptist a polar bear.
The mountains are gray-white and purple, most lovely at 7:12 a.m. when you have your daily aesthetic experience. Fresh. The air is fresh, very remote, very innocent. The air knows nothing about the smell of life in New Orleans.
This is Utah. It is younger and cleaner than Louisiana. It is not adult enough to have Afro-Cajun swamps. Or reptiles who earn doctoral degrees in corruption. It is still in the salt lake stage of life. This is Utah, the property of Utes appropriated by Mormons.
The Chinese ink-wash of Utah mountains refuses to occupy canvas or paper, refuses to confuse the purity of being with bliss.
And, thank God, Salt Lake City does not remember Noah and the Flood. The purpose of global warming is a fact not a theory. You remember nothing as your eyes sample the awe of mountains.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr. April 3, 2017