Outside, the sun is rising somewhere behind the grey. Its all moist and smoke for the first few minutes, then a bit later some figment of white/yellow rises above the sky. In a matter of seconds, the outline of the surrounding hills become visible. First the Basilica, then the trees forming a rim around -what appears to be- a giant bowl of fog. Or witch's broth.
For some days I've been struggling with pen and paper, colors, anything that involves the creative orchestration of ideas into visual form. The only creative activity I've been flourishing at lately is food. While that isn't bad, food lasts for only a few moments before digestion sets in. Its ephemeral like a giant bowl of fog. Things like that have its own beauty. However, the phenomenon of being able to translate the transcendental, wordless experiences into a form that can be shared and translated (in however close we can get to its "meaning") is a joy greater than just me alone enjoying a really nice smoothie.
The art of translation: ideas to visuals, feelings into words, etc. is an ambitious task. A moment of perfection is perfect only for the moment and yet we try to photograph it, mine from the depths of our experience for those little sparkling nuggets of dunno - dream dust. It all goes and passes like the fog.
So while anything that comes out from my hands may not exactly come close to holy, I still feel that its important to keep moving, keep holy the holy, and keep oneself from freezing.