... and I am feeling oddly energized. We had, what I would concider, an excellent class. I mean really excellent. Time was up... I could have stayed there talking all night. I am fascinated by Virginia Woolf. I am fascinated by the effect she has on people. I am fascinated by each individual in our class. The comments made were surprising and honest. Oh, sometimes so honest. I noticed that it seems people pull out of Woolf what is most a part of their life. I pull from her words her struggle with time, her love of color. The others... they each had another angle. So many facets, so many angles in her writing.
The fudge was good too.
But good god, I am so frustrated with myself when I try to write. I wish so much that I had the space of mind to give it energy. Remembering sitting in Seattle (was it Seattle?) at an outdoor cafe, a coffee shop, looking upwards to the building across the street, an old building, carved scrollwork around the edges and windows, odd shapes on walls, gargoyles and fruit; a window was open. I lost myself to that moment completely. Not wanting to let go of the laughter dripping, dripping . I sharpened my pencil so as to leave leave imprints of the city on white paper. Laughter echoing-- echoing, from windows in the sky, dripping down leaves
into my coffee...
Silver sidewalks the same as clouds. No petals, perhaps only oysters and pearls.
Instead of being a writer lastnight... after several glasses of wine, I went to the studio. Really, I went there to make sure it still existed. The dark morning hours of night, I knew I should go home cuz V. would be worried, but I could not pull myself away. The next thing I knew I had a piece of board on the easel, my palette knife dipped in greens and blues. What color would the sky be? Night with stars set unbroken. What color would that green be? The green that swept the length of the mantelpiece, an ocean, a mirage, a caravan of camels, a snub-nosed monster, slushing the water, polished pebbles for eyes. What colors would those be? My hands in the paint, caressing it across the canvas. I fell in love with those colors, fell outside of reality, of time, fell into blue and green. Stepped back and forward again to surprise myself with a frustration of red. Bright red, in the corner, a welling up of something that seeped through my veins, weighted only by the cool slipperiness of lily pads and dark sky.
Only half returning from the possession. I went home. I slept. And awoke to today. Feeling purged and alive and aware of the strange silver sky hanging upwards, upside down, making puppets of aspen, invisible string... that faint veil of blue. Virginia Woolf, I love you.