Of every thing drawn here, the flowers
Very late in her life she journeyed to his home, not Aithne but the other. She has writen that much here on other pages: a cottage
an orchard, Hrimfax painted upon a canvas years old. Off course she was very pleased by this discovery, not Hrimfax but the art
it was a fine surprise for a thing which reckoned itself an artist of great finess. Seeing this and knowing besides that she had
been thieving his inks for weeks (a complicated matter) he offered her the paints which he kept there, and brush and seat and a
canvas upon which she might, he said, paint whatever she pleased at that very moment.
Cinnabar would haf done such a thing as a test a measure, or perhaps as a means to erode some of the damage done to her mi me.
Syl simply intended a kindness. Knowing full well that the cottage had her uneasy, that his presence terrified her, he thought to put
her at ease by offering the means and oportunity to practice an art which she claimed to love. It would sooth, it would distract.
She thought herself an artist. I had never in all my life held a paint brush before that moment.
Imagine a child's first painting. Imagine the child a cripple. Imagine it blindfolded.
There are practical limits to what Belief can acomplish.
He watched as she painted, in great secrecy so that she would not realise and off course she never saw this.
I saw see. Busying himself about the hearth or the drapes or wine and watching all the while watching as with great confidens
she put brush to canvas expecting flowers and getting nothing but mistakes. She persisted, Believing. Hands that can only make
mistakes lack the skill to correct them, every thing becomes worse. Colour becomes like mud when it is layerd over and over. She
could not understand, there is no understanding when Belief fails so confronti. She suspected a fault in the paints but how could
this be? An architect she reasoned, even a frightning one, must necesarily be equipped with the very best paints else he was not much
of an architect at all, and if he was flawed at so fundamental a level why would she fear him? And she did, even when her painting
looked like mud instead of gardens. Where then lay the true flaw? if not the paints the brush the canvas then
So she covered it all with grey, to make it ugly like everything else. It was a disaster. So she murdered it.
Twelve months later and then twelve months again, my hands still shake when I reach towads this page with its ink flowers. It burns,
I am sick with the memory of it. That was her unfounded pride that he watched or else it was mine, my eyes frowning my hand
trembeling, me being every inch a fool upon a stage before an audience who's opinion is actually of meaning to me.
There is no good cunclusion to this tale. There is no meaning. It is neither confession nor history.