2006-01-30 - 9:22 p.m.
this morning, naked trees floated up like fine pencil lines through the white mist.
tonight, the fog holds the world some fixed distance away. streetlights, car lights and city lights are all arrayed on one soft grey plane.
nothing else is there.
when i was younger, there was a girl in my art class who crashed and wrecked her crayons against the paper, trying to find the brightest colors and most vivid forms. she looked so quiet and spoke so gently, but her snapped pencils, shattered pastels and fanned-out scrubbed-down brushes were mute evidence of tremendous violence. i remember how her pictures spilled into the drab classroom, fading the real world into shades of beige.
i've spent some time searching for her, all grown up, but she has a common name. even as a little girl, her talent was so bright and blazing.
me, though - i like to build little worlds from the thinnest lines and smallest points. each scale. one feather. a whisker or wisp of fur. the very smallest bones of all.