In the magical, mystical making of the world, someone chose to make people.

But people are strange.

It is so close!

My child is two; she doesn’t have to think about it, it is completely here, for her, right now.

I almost saw it, tonight, simply through singing and practicing songs. I can ALMOST touch it! So I believe it’s real!

I think I know what it it is, but I’m not sure. Since I’m an artist, I’m still a child, so I’m always trying to bring it to everyone. But since I’m also an adult, I’m also trying to translate it in a manner that anyone can understand.

Someone is here.

To your senses, to what you see, to what you hear. Right now.

What are you seeing and hearing? Right now. Is it beautiful? If it is, it isn’t useless.

Perception is an aspect of our mind that arises from immediate corporeal consciousness, as the body is the corpuscule, the node, through which the mind perceives everything.

Right now, I perceive the outlying purr of crickets, and the whir of the screen. As this idea came to me, I was outside sifting sounds: a faraway spiraling siren, the lumbering clanging cadence in three of a train rolling by, the gentle whirling of a carpet of crickets, and the soft white caress of White Pine needles in the breeze.

The pine needles have an acute smell; the other sounds don’t.

But pay attention, they may.

What color is the wind, and what color is the whirl of crickets? The crickets whirl warmly within the green, while a gentle warm dark orange oversees. It is, after all, October.

Please ask such a question. All winds have different colors, and different textures.

As a landscape painter, I must translate the moods of the land, and therefore the weather, through the visual concepts of color, shape, and texture. These constructs are the only way anyone can present a painting, since a painting is, by definition, an arrangement of colored shapes.

Yet when I LISTEN to the wind, I realize I have to paint it as a part of the landscape experience. How to do so becomes the challenge, since wind is fleeting; so when I listen to the wind I immediately become a synesthete.

My favorite wind is the indigo and rising one within the winter night, crackling silver and metallic upon branches creased with ice, rushing upward throughout black lace and scraping wildly against a laden gray sheet-slate sky. This wind resounds with a metallic howl, and resonates everywhere you hear it. It’s often a March wind.

Do you have a favorite wind?