Ice
I can't remember if it's a dream or a fragment of memory:
An Asian man standing behind a high counter, holding out with tongs a crescent of ice. The ice is cloudy white, the size and shape of a flint knife. The woman in front of the counter nodding her approval, as if to a wine cork, or a dueler's pistol.
1 Comments
Erin, my wife and kids are pining for me to “get offline” but I had to visit and say thanks for the note you left on my entry for today. I had to laugh — a rule against passion and good writing online.
Great to meet another Canadian, artist, writer (you are even published!) online. Thanks to Richard Bott’s recommend I was just at your hubby’s site as well.
Your design is wonderful and clean and man, you said in a paragraph, what took me way too many words to say. “This is page is an experiment, to see how typing up my scribblings affects them. This is not a journal; some of it is fiction. “
As you said, I will be back.
Thrive!, O