| "There's a long-distance loneliness
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| | exploration and interplanetary travel
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| rolling out over the desert floor." So
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| | sparked the very core of my childhood as I
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| croons Jackson Browne in "The Fuse". With
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| | gazed upon, no, as I gazed into the
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| this painting of emotion, the pen becomes
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| | pictures spread before my young mind.
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| the brush, the mind is the canvas. With
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| | Anywhere I wanted to go, pictures took me
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| but one line, a picture is painted. More
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| | light years away. Anyone I wanted to be,
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| than a picture, a feeling is painted. "A
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| | pictures made it so. If it could be
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| long-distance loneliness." It's beautiful,
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| | transferred to canvas, or paper, or board,
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| it's immense, and it's depressing all at
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| | or glass from the mind of an artist, I was
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| once.
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| | there!
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| It's a challenge when one attempts to
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| | But where can the visual artist take me
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| resolve the dilemma of the greater of two
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| | that the writer cannot? Is it enough to
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| artists: the one whose canvas is
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| | paint the cave in the shadows? Does the
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| transformed with the brush, and the other,
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| | visual artist take me into the cave, or
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| who uses words to stir the senses.
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| | does my own imagination? In the scene of
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| When I was a child, I could examine
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| | the cabin in the woods, surrounded by a
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| picture books for hours on end, imagining
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| | winter wonderland, do I feel the warmth of
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| I was there on the pages, in the story,
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| | the fire because of the light I see in the
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| one of the characters. I was three inches
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| | window and the smoke emanating from the
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| high as I scooted into the little mouse
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| | chimney? Does my mind take me there and
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| hole in the wall. There I would take
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| | supply the warmth?
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| refuge with my friend, the mouse. There we
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| | Does the painting on the canvas move my
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| were safe from the cat, safe from the
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| | psyche? Is it true that I need to have
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| elements outside, on the little couch, in
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| | experienced warmth to imagine it? Do I
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| the little home in the wall.
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| | need to know snow to feel the cold? Is it
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| I was the cowboy in the fort, the Indian
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| | the viewer who brings the canvas to life,
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| in the canoe, the army man in the foxhole.
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| | or the artist?
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| I was a giant, walking through the sea,
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| | So to the visual artist, and I am one
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| able to touch the ocean floor. Sloshing to
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| | myself, I say paint the cold without
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| the shore, I owned the city as I trekked
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| | showing me the snow. Then paint the warmth
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| through the streets, using cars for my own
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| | of the cozy fire in the cabin without
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| personal toys.
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| | showing me the fire. Paint the wet of the
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| As I grew, pictures brought on different
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| | waterfall and the depth of the valley and
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| feelings. I felt sadness, romance, and
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| | the height of the mountain. Yes, the
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| elation. That magnificent painting of the
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| | visual artist can do these things and
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| waterfall with the calm pool beneath, took
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| | more!
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| me away. I put myself into the picture,
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| | But the dilemma remains, canvas or pen.
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| drenching myself in the icy water, hiding
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| | How does the visual artist paint the
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| behind the massive liquid sheet, falling
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| | "long-distance loneliness rolling out over
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| asleep in the sunlit afternoon on the bank
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| | the desert floor?"
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| of the sandy shore by that waterfall.
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| | How indeed?
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| The otherworldly feelings of space
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