Xan says I haven't been completely honest with you, and that deception will get me nowhere. I think he's overstating the case. It's not that I'm lying, per se, just that I'm carefully choosing what to reveal and when. I call this editing. I call this composition.
I don't like reality television shows where they lay it all out on the line. It's too in-your-face and undignified. My mother used to say, of dressing modestly, "leave a little to the imagination." I am dressing this blog modestly.
I also had a creative writing professor in college who used to talk about the fact that there was no real truth, and that truth was always relative. She talked about writing, and how writers often write a scene or a piece of dialogue, not because it is true in the literal sense, but because it conveys a truth that the writer wants the reader to feel and experience.
So what is the truth I want you to feel and experience? The same sense of mystery, the same puzzle that has to be unlocked, the idea that you may not know for sure what is real and what is not.
What if your best friend, your soul mate, told you something you knew could not be true? What would you do?
Some Paintings...
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La Famille du Saltimbanque: L'Enfant Blessé 
The Ambassadors
Egyptian Cat
and another...
A Cup of Tea, A Cigarette, and She
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Paintings and Your Tweets
Got some great tweets about your favorite paintings and I'm working on a post with pictures of these. Some of them I'd never seen before so I want to share them all in one place.
Also, I think it's better for me to focus more on pictures than words. After all, I majored in Art History, not Literature. Words are so raw and true. Pictures are more open to interpretation. Words can also lie and deceive.Words can cut like a knife...
Sorry that's it's been so quiet. I guess there are times when I come across things in David's journal that I really don't want to read or think about any more.
Xan is right. I share too much. It's easier to be alone.
Also, I think it's better for me to focus more on pictures than words. After all, I majored in Art History, not Literature. Words are so raw and true. Pictures are more open to interpretation. Words can also lie and deceive.Words can cut like a knife...
Sorry that's it's been so quiet. I guess there are times when I come across things in David's journal that I really don't want to read or think about any more.
Xan is right. I share too much. It's easier to be alone.
I Hate April
T.S. Eliot was right. In not so many words: April sucks.
When all of your resistance has been spent by the winter, and you can just taste the spring, April comes with its freezing winds and fresh snowstorms.
When the flowers bloom and the insects come to life again, the temperature suddenly drops, killing the flowers and fresh buds.
The wind cuts like a knife.
April is a tease.
Will summer ever come?
When all of your resistance has been spent by the winter, and you can just taste the spring, April comes with its freezing winds and fresh snowstorms.
When the flowers bloom and the insects come to life again, the temperature suddenly drops, killing the flowers and fresh buds.
The wind cuts like a knife.
April is a tease.
Will summer ever come?
Insomnia
Up at night, as usual. My brain runs 1000 miles per hour. I'm starting to understand why David kept such extensive journals; why he documented so much.
I've been thinking lately, about the nature of literature. I've been talking about books with some friends. Why do we choose to read the types of stories we do? I'm particularly fascinated by myths and legends. How did we come to write about things that don't exist? Were these creatures simply part of our imagination or have they been somehow lost to history?
Clearly, I need to go to bed...
I've been thinking lately, about the nature of literature. I've been talking about books with some friends. Why do we choose to read the types of stories we do? I'm particularly fascinated by myths and legends. How did we come to write about things that don't exist? Were these creatures simply part of our imagination or have they been somehow lost to history?
Clearly, I need to go to bed...
The crux of the matter...
Is that Xan doesn't really know everything that happened and therefore he is afraid. Afraid of the truth. Afraid of what people might think. Most importantly, afraid of where he stands. Will he embrace the truth, which will mean betraying everyone else? Or will he stand with the rest, which will mean betraying me?
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