We eat dinner by the light of oil lamps that illuminate the food and the porch. to the south, out over the marsh, the outlines of trees are visible, highlighted by the weak light of the moon. To the north lies a sloping field that terminates in two skew lines of tall trees. Looking through the lamplight towards the bank of grass, I see the outlines of the trees I know so well, I perceive the spots where the bare trunks emerge from piles of dirt, and feel the topography as well as If I'm running down the hill, as I've done so often. But my visual perception is the blackest black I've seen, I try to make out the outlines of the trees that I thought I had seen. lines dance in the black, and I make an effort to destroy the topography, to see only what light hits the retina–pure blackness without context. I succeed partly, but my mind insists, it still throws trees in front of me, where there is nothing to see
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July 17th 2019, Osterville, Ma.