That’s how it went, a million nights staggering to the toilet and back again noting the time, hoping sleep would take me back, my forgiving lover.
They were like that, the days: an icy trail but a patchwork of matted leaves that keeps you from slipping. A non-alcoholic beer because symbols for me are enough. The Starbucks logo in a window in Stuttgart made to look like a woodcut, waiting to meet a blogger friend and how it looked like a mask, a face on the moon.
On the train back to our village how the rain turned to snow and I wrote about it, and that made it bigger somehow.
And if painters get a feeling from a landscape, and it’s likely (or impossible otherwise) they’re the only ones who will know exactly what it felt like to be there, then it becomes some funny little secret between the two of them, a moment that got elevated.
And others see weird things in the painting you wouldn’t expect, maybe it’s what they needed to see.
And if the painting’s done its job to stop someone and move them for a minute and they see something utterly odd and unimaginable, maybe it’s proven itself real then, just like the landscape.