You know that final famous scene in James Joyce’s’ short story ‘The Dead’ where a disenchanted Gabriel stands at the window, in the dark, looking out as the snow fills the gas-lit Dublin streets.
In the silence he imagines it’s snowing all over the land, even in the furthest western boundaries of the country coming down in thick heavy blankets, both on the living as well as the dead.
For some reason that image came back to me at the weekend.
A friend said despite signing up for my daily emails, they are just re-directed into a mail account he never uses.
Like so many flakes of falling snow.
Filling up inboxes of the living and the dead.
If you could paint it, you might just have a very nice painting.
Would have to be an abstract though. How else could one grapple with such an emotion?
That’s what paintings are. Emotions made manifest.
There happens to be a few un-mummified ones here, still breathing and alive. Organic, waiting for the opportunity to thrive.
A short week this week – it being Tuesday and all.
Have a good one.