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| Advent III: The Mirror and the Mask | ||||
| At a desk in a room bare except for a bed, and a desk, and a table with a canvas laid upon it, with a lone window, large though it be, a room with dull carpet and a wall of shelves, in it sits myself, it is cold, I have one electric bulb lit. Perhaps there is no computer, I will ignore it, though its screen lights the room. Really I am dwelling on words, and the words dwell on images, though at present the canvas is blank. I walk up to it. Perhaps it is day. I have my brushes spread on top of a portable case I do not own. My body is not grotesque, but it is sort of hollow. While my body resolves this for itself I look afar for objects to be body to my fire, and these objects too often refuse me, so that I must build the objects from light, and then it is the fear that is the object, and the fear is a door, and the door must pass. Advent: The Wall of the Mask and the Mirror Advent IV: The Canvas |
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