Being in eastern Europe is what helped me form a clearer picture of life. Being in the concrete juggle of dizzying monotony, where color and personal messes are the bits of life that infect the dull carcass of the objective world, the what is world. Memories are like this, the colors have stained through; faded, but still there, and the fact that they are almost lost, but yet somehow still present and saved, that is what makes them beautiful. Impressions of people, the placement of objects as they used to be, the circles and not so random patterns people work through; these are the important things. The little bits of nonsense we create around ourselves, that is the real value of life, not what is but what we desire to be; bits of flights of fancy, colored and staining, in an otherwise mundane and grey world.


There is something magical, something spontaneously wonderful in the moment between connecting what is and what could be with creative thought. The changing of trees and a river to a boat for the crossing, and the embarkation of a new adventure therein.