a week in the Valentine. kisses. kisses to the Leighton Colony for allowing the likes of me to cross the stone bridge into the woods, to stomp the snow from my feet on the Valentine steps, slip the key into the door, hang my coat in the sunlit foyer, open the 2nd glass door into cedar and glass, vaulted ceiling’ed, grand piano’d Valentine.
privilege.
privilege for hard work. commitment. vision. courage. facing/accepting failure. success.
last night a round of open studios. I saw a constellation of lipstick kisses. was hypnotized by colour/geometry in motion. saw a wolf’s head struggling out of stone. a narwhal swimming in a wooden sea. a lace fatima with laser eyes. a book that is a stream. a stream that is a screen. walking. a birdhouse made of flowers. a rabbit smoking a joint (or was it just a rolly?), singers being processed through animated tubes. tiny blobby folk engaged in blobby pilates (or?).
joyous. playful. no darkness. how lovely. (but then when one is writing a requiem maybe everything looks like light)
there’s a pine martin outside my studio. he rattles the roof of my neighbour. he rolls in the snow before my eyes. his face is sweet. little wolf. little racoon. little black bead nose.
Singing With the Boys 