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.
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.