01-10-04

The snow outside looks heavy and tired, like a big white dog that's flopped on the lawn.

This morning, warm air and cold snow created a low-slung fog that made the trees behind the neighbour's house look like impressionist's after-thoughts.

This afternoon, the sun shone for a short while. The light reflected from the snowbank in the garden, into my room, bounced back from the closet-door mirrors and flashed from the cut-glass inkwell on the dresser. It was like living inside a quartz crystal. Not a diamond, that would be sharper than this light. No, not sharp at all. Light was refracted, but gently.

Now it's dark. It could be anytime between now and sunrise tomorrow morning. I sit in my cocoon of artificial light, writing away. Afraid that I'm being too aware of my words(and as artificial as my watercolour lamp), but needing to write something, anything. Like a lifeline to hold me to the world, writing gives me reason to be. And though my words may only speak to me, I have to write them.

Is there a reason why art and artifice start the same way? Art knows when to stop and artifice keeps adding.

Back one. ||||| Forward one.