I spent the day writing, so I have no adventures to relate, other than the adventure of writing hard and well and productively. Which is half of what I live for, but not much fun for others to watch or to hear about.
So posted above is a clip of the great Russian clown Slava. He lives in that dark and beautiful space where despair and wonder meet. And should he ever wander into one of my fantasy novels, he'll find a warm welcome there.
Title Above: If I ever wrote a story about Slava, that's what I'd call it. But it would be a sad story, so out of respect to to the man, the story will never exist. Save possibly in an anthology in the Library of Dreams.
That was very cool, thanks. Slava looks like he wandered out of a play by Beckett. The finale sent a chill down my spine...that crescendo by Orff fit the scene perfectly.
Can't help thinking that the story would have something to do with the lovely woman who has to shield her eyes from the storm of paper snow. Or is it the strength of the clown's feelings she's protecting herself from?
Post a Comment