All writers experience that frustrating state of being by which they are unable to articulate adequately the beauty and/or profundity of the thoughts and images flitting about in their imagination. If one had a camcorder that one could direct inwardly to capture the essense of one’s dreams- and that would be able to transmute those shadowy scenes into words- it would be ever so much easier. Alas- one is left struggling with ‘the golden orb’ (to quote the heroine of “Cold Comfort Farm”). Recalling the days of my youth, when ‘creative writing’ was a course offered in high school, I endeavor to paint canvases in the black and white of type font- choosing metaphor and allegory to breath life into what might otherwise be a one-dimensional exercise……’the fat cat sat on the mat, eyeing the rat like a severe school-marm choking with disdain’. Sigh. Surely this is the wages of night-shift. A loss of grey cells commiserate with sleep deprivation. The golden orb winks at me from its perch in the sky- wickedly elusive. “Serves you right!” I bellow at him. “You were not there this morning when that young man tried to rip out tubes that were meant to stay in the secret places! I cleaned up the blood while YOU slept in the safety of darkness, hiding your light behind stars, clouds, and applets of silence!” The golden orb says nothing, but peaks gingerly from behind the slowly dissolving orchard of rain cloud. I am wading through the events of the early dawn- the smell of freshly spilled life lingers as an afterthought. This is the shadow- not the true reality. More numerous are the spaces between the letters- spaces which house the enormity of the Sacred, Holy, and Ineffable One.