it's mid-november, my fingers are cold, there's a draft that floats right over the keyboard it seems. i wonder if it's the chill of some ghostly presence, maybe an angel come to visit. i'm shivering in the studio, the morning rain is giving way to a topping of blue sky and i just looked up to see a wide shaft of bright sun envelope the colorful leaves still on the old oak.
the yellow-orange sizzles surrealistically against the still-grey horizon, geez I can hardly type. i listened to a talk with Eckhart Tolle, it was explicitly not interesting, and he would agree, in fact he kept saying that. "Is a sunset 'interesting'?" he asks. "Only when you start to think about it." i do seem to have a prejudice about thinking, but why throw the baby out with the bath-water. It's not thinking that bugs me, it's over-thinking.
like a flashight on the bough, like the clouds have bent the light horizontally. this is a case where a picture doesn't do words justice:) and the words just disappear.
like a flashight on the bough, like the clouds have bent the light horizontally. this is a case where a picture doesn't do words justice:) and the words just disappear.
