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How can one be angry at a cloud for forming the wrong shape? The same goes for a human, shaping different kind of matter to create; and sometimes it comes out like Leonardo, and sometimes not…

This is as close to perfection as one can get:

Grand Lake, Ontario, fall 2006

Painting by Anne Ashton

/ america

The temperature had been rising all day and by the late afternoon the heat was like an unwanted visitor, tiresome, heavy… She felt its weight on her body which, coated in a fine layer of perspiration, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the wicker chair as if pulled by an unseen force.

She drew a deep breath and run her hands across her chest, spreading the moisture that formed tiny bubbles on her hot skin, slowly, deliberately, as if it were the seed spilled over her by an impatient lover.

The window remained closed, and she stared in resignation at the torn screen. She tried fixing it herself, in vain, as the insects buzzed around her, pushing, jostling to enter the room.

The doorbell broke her reverie, and wrapping the bathrobe around her, she unbolted the door.

He was tall, very tall, and at first her glance rested on his chest. She quickly looked up to meet his gaze, direct, unflinching, dark. He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, already inside in spirit, his body on the brink of movement, suspended.

She led him into the room and stood back as he inspected the window.



Perhaps because you touched me

Perhaps because you never have

Your acceptance, like

Your rejection

Are two sides

Of the same coin.



I’m up

I’m down

The sky on fire

Angels cringing

at my feet

Trampled feathers

choke me.

I want

I need

I cannot have

heaven promised

that is to take.


Gustav Klimt (July 14, 1862– February 6, 1918) was an Austrian symbolist painter and one of the most prominent members of the Vienna Secession movement.

All the omens were good.

The moon was rising slowly, robed in golden sheen. The birds were loud. The cat was happy. My dreams had stairs going up.

Yet I felt dreadful.



So I took to bed. That was the only solution, for how was I to fight something that was not coming?



Art by Julie Oakes

I woke up from a dream in which an important message was imparted on me. But I could not remember what it was; I could see its trace fleeing as I opened my eyes, just a long, tapering shadow disappearing behind a corner of my mind.

Now I can’t stop thinking about it. All that is left is a sensation; one of relief, a feeling of sudden freedom from the burden of living, close to understanding. But it’s lost in the recesses of winding nocturnal corridors and I cannot find my way back to retrieve it.

What could it be? Who did it come from? A vague figure lurks behind the words I cannot hear, never did, they were just there, imprinted by a silent voice of a shadowy presence. Pregnant with the resolution of so many doubts, redolent of hope, messengers from beyond.

What was the message? What truth was revealed to my dream self? I cannot stop asking. All my life, I had been asking. I had forgotten the question in the meantime, but I am still waiting for the answer. And now that I received it – or did I? -, it slipped away. Lodged in my subconscious, like every experience, it will guide me from now on, without my knowing it.

I only have to trust.

Some call it faith.

It’s not easy.

It may not be true.

I have to fall asleep soon, or I will go mad.