My blog post from June, 2005:
"She settles herself into a faded cotton cushion on a sturdy wooden frame and unfocuses her vision onto a pastel wash of refracted twilight. The sea serenade is sand between her toes, on her skin, against her tongue. Each wavelet jostles and splinters into quiet drops that, as a whole, rumbles into a full-bodied mural.
This is art at its finest. And she knows this: art is not created; it is discovered.
Her eye marvels at the watercolor sunset and her skin tingles as frothy-white bubbles dance between her feet. Neither of these is a discrete event, significant in its single moment of glory. Rather, they are the organic manifestations of a larger masterpiece that speaks in dimensions deeper than color or feel. Often, we try so hard to focus these impressions into our own translations, from cassette tape ribbon, to oil-masked canvas, to these very own fanciful words upon the screen.
But it was never our own to claim, and attempted duplications will never attain the richness or significance of the original.
It is that singular realization that brings meaning to the simple statement; "live life". It seems so glaringly obvious and intuitive that we nod with assumed wisdom and move quickly past those words to continue operating with industrious ignorance. We're so convinced that we've integrated the philosophy of the original within ourselves that we accept the second-hand rendition as sufficient substitute. Complacency inures us to sensory blindness.
She knows better, though. Do you?"
