I wonder whether art leads to anything more than ephemeral change.

In night and dream I wake. I am the Persian blue with flowered form I gaze, a morning past, the sound of bugle call, the touch of word from field of war one hundred years before.

Although my attention on art is brief in my day, it moves my heart and mind, it plays on me. The more I return to it, either through purpose or accident, the greater its lasting impact on how I act, will act.

Here, with words, I struggle as I do with sound and light.

Whether alone or with another, most often, showing myself, honestly, openly, is difficult, complex. I yearn to be known, but time for this is scarce, so rare, and if I feel the slightest risk that something is not welcomed or understood, I hold back, I keep a part of me safe from view. I wish this wasn't so.

Friendship is my place of trust. It is where best I hope and share my art, my life. In this I place my love.

Belief is not imposed. It arises through trust earned by honourable and consistent actions.

'Woke' and 'Political Correctness': the avoidance of language and actions that exclude, marginalize, or insult people who are disadvantaged or discriminated against. These phrases are also used as derogatory terms to downplay and divert attention from questionable behaviour.

I am struck by how the word lie hides within the word believe.