Photo by Gamaliel Lane Gardner-Masters
White silence, grey skies and this exceptional softness with which the snow settles. A nostalgic blue coolness recalling childhood winters whispers its rumor on the horizon. Sleeping until three the house is weirdly cozy in its murkiness, producing a strange suspense which lacks anticipation. The pony smells off the fields are blanketed by an icy wetness. My thoughts begin to brood like characters in a Russian play. ( In my heart a little gnome slowly cranks the handle of a tiny child's music box that plays "Anna's Theme". ) On such a day I have no desires save to smoke cigars, drink coffee, and stare at the sky. My skin, my tongue are as dry as the pages of a very old and rare copy of "The Idiot". Snow in lazy forms, supple as ceramic cats, snuggle nicely on wingspans of evergreen. Clouds congeal to allow the sun to dismiss its subtle light upon baise buildings. Nearby a telephone booth stands deserted longing for dimes, for vicarious lives.
Nov. - Dec. 78'