A faint rose-quartz kind of day, everything falling away into distance. One friend said of another, “all her paintings have the same horizon line,” and I think all of mine would too, if I were to paint.
My eye is always drawn to the point of convergence, to the place where all things meet. If I ever realize that it's only a fact of the eye, I don't know what I'll do. I could invert it and decide that my eye is where all things meet. Every ray of light that I perceive, from a star or hill or the salt shaker on the next table, has ridden a straight line to come to my eye, out of whatever unguessable distance, from its last glance. Which is a disquieting thought, if I hold on to it long enough. All this radiance for me? The prodigality of it makes me nervous: I've clearly been cast for a far larger part than I have any idea of playing.
Sometimes too when I think of the river, I feel the pull of the whole watershed that draws into the Willamette and the Columbia, the tug of all the water in my body wanting the sea. Not long now! It's just pooled here for a moment; it's just a brief eddy and swirl.