Trickles ...

I am sitting in Peter's dining room. The windows are open, and bright sunlight streams in on me as I write. It is the light of summer dusk—golden. The wind blows quietly over the potted nasturtiums on the back patio. When it blows stronger, I become distracted, as if a visitor has just appeared at the back door to ask for some sugar. I am taking my time today, pausing and listening, writing a few words, pausing and listening again.

The light wanes now, dipping behind the building as the sun sets. I miss you; I have always missed you.

There is a sadness in my heart that cannot be assuaged by the laughter of friends, the comfort of family, the glow from a long, hard run. It is there when I smile at strangers, when I walk the canals of Paris or Amsterdam—and presumably Venice as well, although I have never been there. Perhaps this sadness arises from the realization that life is cruel and heartless and arbitrary. That people murder each other for cars. That my art might arise from this, as a way to understand or document or counteract or deny.

The sun has now hidden behind the clouds, somewhere on the horizon below the building. The gold has shifted to steel, and I am writing (literally, blue ink on buff paper) in gray light. Soon, I'll draw the heavy damask curtains and turn on the internal lights. Shut out any curious eyes as I burn the artificial light.

It is starting to rain again.