In the beginning
My father woke me up today, he was on the phone.
All day the wind has been a constant presence, it sways the great tree behind our house and makes the wind bells ring, eerily prophetic. There is a sort of haziness now, to the gardens, both front and back, a certain golden halo of sunlight that encompasses the bushes and grass and wood of the deck. I went to look at the flowers because I'm thinking of the midnight garden I want to make. I wanted roses but ours are not as particularily glorious as the other ones I'd found around the neighborhood. I was looking for that brilliant coral red in small buttons, but I found more. Violets and blues and deep crimsons in strange and beautiful shapes.
It seems I have entered a creative rampage. I grabbed the old sketches and colored them and got rid of the ones I don't really want. I'm looking through the two magazines I own, looking for something, anything that might catch my attention. I don't feel much like writting now and therefore I come here to force the writting out. To recount the deeds of the day.
I'm still in my pijamas and it's 7 pm, I have been awake since 12. I am listening to HIM and I am thinking of doing a pairing portrait, unsure of how to proceed with the man's face.
I look out the window, a crack between the white linen of the curtains, the gold has exploded into an irradescent glow this afternoon and I feel much too lazy to get up and take a bath which I should do. I don't feel too keen on staying home today, maybe I feel like calling someone. I feel strangely detatched.
My paints and sketches and other things are strewn all over the floor as the room darkens. There is a point in the day when you cease to notice the passage of time, you are suspended and every minute is very much like the next. You seem a picture frozen it time. It only happens in weekends, because the afternoon moves breathetakingly fast.
I stop the music, the world suddenly echoing of singing birds, the light is coming from the west. If I go to the kitchen door it will open into a strange vast view of the world, eternal and beautiful like the Great Garden. It's strange to think that it once was like that, that it was the cities and not the gardens that were contained.
I've been thinking of God as always. For someone who claims not to believe in the Big One I spent entirely too much time thinking about him. I was thinking about him in a strange Jungian line of thought. I was thinking of how each of us is a world contain, how it is the individual view the only one we can see and therefore it is the only truth. Are we God's Truth then? We are his world, made in his image so therefore he must have an internal Truth, unlike the world around him. Are we that then, a reflection, a flash of intuition, an imagined world in the flicker of some ancient's eyes?
There, I have gone full circle, I wasn't thinking of echoing the Revelations of the Dark Mother but I did.
I feel like showering now, wrapping this last up and getting ready maybe for dinner or a movie or something. Boredom. I should work on things pending.
Tomorrow we go see the whales maybe.