Tuesday, November 27, 2007
27 November 2007. Gold-gray November skies, light from the east, poring over the hills. Morning. Young man with dark hair helter-skelter, dashing along street to reach bus just as its door is closing--the driver, impassive, pushes a lever and the door re-opens. Across the way, gaunt man in red tee, climbing out of polished gray Prius--bending as he does so.
A tiny boat--white in color--on a dark dark lake, set in a narrow column of black. Next to a rolling field of trees and grain, neither open nor closed. Above--two figures, also dark--a man and a woman--standing side by side, almost touching. Long diagonal of floor--somewhere inside--reaching up and up. At the right--faces of figures from far away. The past? Or simply distant?
A single ear--in chiaroscuro, carefully drawn--to hear the world...