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This afternoon supine on my wheat bronze couch, book propped up, head reclining on the armrest, I stared up through the shutters and watched the interplay of shadow, light, and palm frond. Immediately, my mind was drawn to the impressionist's studies of illumination--the view from a suburban plantation shutter substituted for Monet's cathedrals. It's the colors that captivate me; their gradations of shades and meaning.

I'm no painter, but I would like to be able to write in such colors. Weave words instead of pigment into a balanced scene, sun drenched with lengthening shadows stretching just beyond the frame. Writing, like painting, at its roots, is the communication of a vision, a reality. Hardly ever the viewer's reality. I hope one day I will be able to describe the oblivion of a blue sky dotted with clouds seen through a small, upper story window. Enable the reader to feel the solitude, loneliness, sheer empty soaring heights and be there, in that moment, immersed in my perspective...drowning in my thoughts. Right now I feel that my command of language is so inexact--the thoughts and feelings I wish to express slip through my hand like water, leaving only a vague impression of substance. Yet there are no limits to what can be described except those we subliminally impose. Language is an infinitely flexible medium. However it often escapes, bending and forming of it's own will until your vision is gone-- replaced with a tangled mess. And that's what happens those rare instances you have a vision. The rest of the time is apathetic indolence, a voice without words whispering banalities.

{yes, i realize this is old... but until someone writes me a biography, it stays.}

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