1:11 a.m. 11 December 2001
The sky is such tonight that the light of the streetlamps and the city reflects off it and it looks pink. It's like there's some other light, maybe rain light, that turns its own color. A color not dependent on the sun.
I can hear the rain in the chimney in my room. I would like to have a fire. But they don't let you have fires in these fireplaces. For obvious reasons. I suppose if I had a fire I wouldn't be able to hear the rain, though, so that's all right.
I like the way the branches of the trees outside look, outlined against the solid clouds. They're very still. A little farther off, maybe, than they usually are. Rain can do that. It makes things go farther away. So does snow. And fog makes them go away entirely. It changes the world.
I'd like to paint what I see in the mirror that hangs above my mantel, facing the window.
There is the window, reflected in the left side of the mirror, partitioned into nine, cut off just before the sill and the plants at the bottom.
There, behind the panes are the lines of the tree branches, now with no trunks to give them context. Silently partitioning the world outside the partitions of the window, reaching up and never stopping.
There is the sky, salmon pink and thick,a s if there were nothing beyond it either. Or, more precisely, as if you could never see what was beyond it. It's a substance unto itself there.
And the rest of the picture is the shadow that's my room. Suggestions of a lamp, a scarf, a wall, a clock. Shadows in greyblack and the color you see when you wake up in the middle of the night when you are little. Familiar but unfamiliar. Quiet color.
I wish I could paint it. But I don't paint. So this is all I have.
The sky is such tonight that the light of the streetlamps and the city reflects off it and it looks pink. It's like there's some other light, maybe rain light, that turns its own color. A color not dependent on the sun.
I can hear the rain in the chimney in my room. I would like to have a fire. But they don't let you have fires in these fireplaces. For obvious reasons. I suppose if I had a fire I wouldn't be able to hear the rain, though, so that's all right.
I like the way the branches of the trees outside look, outlined against the solid clouds. They're very still. A little farther off, maybe, than they usually are. Rain can do that. It makes things go farther away. So does snow. And fog makes them go away entirely. It changes the world.
I'd like to paint what I see in the mirror that hangs above my mantel, facing the window.
There is the window, reflected in the left side of the mirror, partitioned into nine, cut off just before the sill and the plants at the bottom.
There, behind the panes are the lines of the tree branches, now with no trunks to give them context. Silently partitioning the world outside the partitions of the window, reaching up and never stopping.
There is the sky, salmon pink and thick,a s if there were nothing beyond it either. Or, more precisely, as if you could never see what was beyond it. It's a substance unto itself there.
And the rest of the picture is the shadow that's my room. Suggestions of a lamp, a scarf, a wall, a clock. Shadows in greyblack and the color you see when you wake up in the middle of the night when you are little. Familiar but unfamiliar. Quiet color.
I wish I could paint it. But I don't paint. So this is all I have.
Labels: liminality, lonliness, nature
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