It's Easy

It's easy to understand. A world of words - words as a world - a kind of separate reality - like that of a strange city - as you walk through it - seeing all the lighted windows & wanting to fill them with imaginary lives, words and stories.

I read your words - no longer alone - and memory overwhelms but it also reconciles. It is easy to understand but hard to acknowledge, things and words. The innocence of green fields, blue sky, I hadn't really thought of what it means but those lacy trees, the brilliant colours of the flowers that weighs on the eyes - who's names I forget - I could spend my days looking at you. But there are more feasts - the sunsets - strawberries, raspberries - mango - the colours that spill into view - imagine - such blinding skies!

I had wanted to keep a journal of the sunsets - how when the air descended into coolness, their colours changed from vivid to soft and bruised - spreading with the breeze up to the mountains until the night sky where the stars shone. I still may. Words to consider. Sights you'd want to last forever. Moments of history. The past. The rest of living. It's easy to understand.......

``````````````



The Red Studio (or The Art of Dreams)

I had the strangest dream. I was standing in Matisse's red studio when everything started to move. And there I was, now standing on the ceiling ( the room being all of one colour, this was not difficult .) Here I was - lost in red. (Not my favourite colour, either.) Sunlight was everywhere and no shade - patterns of the things in the room changed and began to dance before me. I remembered the walls were red too - were they green in the dream? It was a pleasant change from the white upholstery I'm used to. Now there were Matisse's own paintings on my walls! That's what I could do - stare at his paintings when insomnia overtook. The slant of those paintings have caught my eye - now in the corner of the room - staring out - should I sit in his Morroccan chair - & think of radiance though there are no windows nor doors in this room to let in any light. .I see the empty glass - was Matisse here, just before me? Here he comes now - with a replenishment of paint tubes. We talk still life. Strange.

http://www.moma.org/collection/browse_results.php?object_id=78389

````````



Murmering (In appreciation of Schubert)

Fragments of a Schubert melody call me - murmering. First the left hand & then the right - now they slip into a minor key. They turn, they fade, they trickle. Leaning into their instruments, the musicians slow down and speed up. Unwinding. Then silence. You can feel the absence.