Each evening the gates open and provide escape. This is not the ordinary workplace of the day. It’s glow on a winter’s night can be felt by passerbys on the city streets running a late night errand to the market. The scribe inside commits to paper the thoughts of the day, of the week. How do these paths - these errant trajectories - create a lesson worth telling to my grandchildren? A glance out the window, another log on the fire. Yes, to be selfish and enjoy the moment is the reason for this place, for my existence. Is it even a story worth telling? Perhaps the more mondane, the more revealing. Joyce indulges in the common man and the everyday - doesn’t he? Last week was an ordinary week, each morning waking up an hour too early and looking forward to an evening knowing its potential will be cut short by exhaustion. There’s something quite nice about paper and ink. I suppose this is a similar delight shared by the stone mason or the sailor. Engaging in one of civilization’s ancient dances.
The ‘blue twilight’ is how a friend, thousand of miles away, described the setting that surrounded me last night. A nice surprise when one’s reality succumbs to another’s memory. This morning, or I should say late afternoon, I sit at a cafe reading of the ‘Distance of the Moon.’ A timely read as Calvino captures perfectly the struggle the sun faces each night in Helsinki as it tries to fall below the horizon. I was also very moved by his description of home and nostalgia… ‘a where, a surrounding, a before, an after.’
Blue skies, speckled light, and sun when we needed it… a perfect day! Today we discovered gravity in a white butterfly, reflected on edges, and asked a lot of questions. In the end the goal is always the same - create beautiful objects that elevate our understanding of who we are as a culture. If these same objects provide us entry into a realm of dream, allow us to see through the eyes of a child, or reflect on the fragile nature of man… than all the better.