Capturing the Image....
When I left, there was the promise of a white Christmas, a couple of feet of snow on the ground. On my return, as the plane flew up the channel, the mountains were still white clean. But landing showed nothing but a few dirty, sharp piles of leftovers hovering along sidewalks.
The hoarfrost is back. It grows in thin shells, like mollusks, on delicate branches and leaves. At a glance, it looks like snow, but it's an illusion shattered with a touch.
Tonight, the forecast was for rain...or snow...or freezing drizzle. At Auke Bay, it's decided to snow, white drifting down from the black, black sky.
I didn't like the Lower 48 for a lot of reasons. The main one was the aesthetics. The soil is a pale, dusty brown. The trees and undergrowth are a uniform olive green. The sky is pale blue, when it's not smeared with smog. Every day, one after another, year after year, this is what I looked at. In the winter, a high fog loomed overhead. Then, summer came, and it all started over. I felt as though I was trapped in some endless loop of boredom.
Every day is different in Alaska. You never know what the weather will do and how it will affect the landscape. The bay outside my window can be mercury gray, pure black, slate blue, seaglass green, depending on Mother Nature's mood. The snow on the mountains heaps up, melts and slides, never giving me the same picture.
Right now, the woods should be winter dead, but they simply give me a new palette. In the summer, they're vibrant, overwhelming green. Now, all their skeletons are revealed. The Devil's Club's naked knobby fingers stretch up from the stiff moss. The blueberry bushes are blood red spider's legs. The long branches of the hemlocks bent under the snow's weight, or bare, as now, they're nearly blue with darkness. Pale green Spanish moss drapes here and there.
Blandness drives me wild. There's texture and depth to this place. This is what I missed the most: my eye and then my words being inspired and stimulated. I tell myself that I'm above this need. An artist should be able to grow in concrete, right? I'm weak. My roots need moss and granite studded gravel.
Santa brought a digital camera. I'll be starting a photo gallery for these visual stimulants.