It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.
The two most engaging powers of an author are to make new things familiar, familiar things new.
...each person is required to ask, 'what is my authority?' - on what do you base your decisions? if it's yourself, then you are without excuse...
...I hardly ever see your profile, but have I told you it's beautiful? - like the soft gentle lines of snow...
...you betrayed me, but after all those years I discover, my tears have wiped the slate clean...
...it's always somebody's fault - I blame you for my helpless love - do you think I chose this? Your beauty compelled me...
...at dawn, the grains of sleep turn to floating black spots, then out of focus the world tilts, and the cat scratches at the door...
...at morning, I'm unruffled - I'll sit with my tea and Muse Cat beside me and listen to the soft chime of the grandfather clock...
...today there are bars of light on the rug, but Muse Cat prefers his tomato box where he can dream in private...
...they say a reformed roue makes the best husband, but, Oh! Didn't they tell you? Monsters can't be reformed...
...thinking about laughing with 2 yr old Findlay today - Dostoyevsky was right, “The soul is healed by being with children.” ...
...freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night...
...I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists...
...I'm not in control and without a firm spot, like Archimedes I can't move the world - let alone your heart..
...when people oppose your view, you can become a lightning rod, but if I were you, I'd let them stew...
...in January, everything seems desolate. The Moon ascends to cold heights - and I, a ragged sky filled with dark kisses...lie abandoned by you...
...you are my Lady of Shalott lost in a dream of isolation - I care too much for you - I romanticize depression...
...I deliberately spilled the black ink of despair because my perfect soul was a stained glass illusion - can you understand that?...
...you called me poet-priest - I am. ...devoted to my art, faithful to you...or, is the other way around?...
...the answer is not in the damn blank page - it's in the days or years before and you have to dredge it up - exhume the past again ...
...the wounds of the past and the scars of the present don't disfigure me in your eyes - because you know the price I pay for loving you ...
