Written by Lyn Horton


It takes courage to get out of bed in the morning and realize that everything is going to be new, just as yesterday, everything was also new, but today is in the past. 

We may think the same thoughts that we thought yesterday but within a different framework. I may go to the grocery store today with the list I made yesterday.

I may follow my morning routine, but eat and drink my coffee in an altered sequence from the one that I followed yesterday.

I may sleep in the same bed I sleep in every night but have a sore back this morning.

I may want to write this blog entry now, whereas a few minutes ago, I had no idea that I was going to start writing.

I may do another drawing using the same kinds of lines that I used on a drawing last week, but the drawing has another way of being, another circumstance for viewing. 

Within the last six months, each Sunday, I have been accompanying a close friend of mine, who is a photographer, to places I never knew existed. These places ooze with spectacular vistas, or overwhelmingly earthy smells, or exceedingly sensuous environments, or glass-like slippery rocks, or miles and miles of trails through thousands of trees. They are places to absorb the natural temporary circumstances because tomorrow those circumstances will change. A lush waterfall will have become a series of delicate trickles, or the leaves may have fallen off the trees or the temperature might have plummeted 60 degrees and snow will be where dusty footprints once were. 

The passion which directs me to write these words to describe the aforementioned are meant to capture the moment, not in a photographic way. Rather in a way that reveals the moments’ transition into other moments, that reminds me to breathe and enjoy the air, that triggers endless ideas, opens my heart and mind to clarity and the pristine qualities of vitality and the fleeting notions which are only steps to other fleeting notions. 

Writing occupies my time when I am exploring the truth of what goes…How is my everyday life, without psychology? The way in which situations present themselves. Without any premonitions, astrological explanations, or calendars of events. More with acts of impulse that are ready to go within the subconscious. 

Repeating myself is not boring. I am reviving whatever is repeated. I am giving it new energy. New color, new tone, new means to evolve. 

How invigorating poetry is, not to be bound by editorial rules and guidelines.

Which poem is better than another?

Which take on a record sounds better than another? 

Why do I tear up a drawing that has been hanging with a group of similar ones?

The group looks better… no diverging principles of content?

What are, in fact, the details that are a matter of concern? Too many squiggles; not much sense in the way the lines penetrate the plane; no means to balance the impact of the squiggles and the straight lines. The details must make a big difference. The drawing I dispensed with was dumb. 

How is it that the music I am listening to grips me and infuses me with the will to move to the rhythms and dance with the vibes? For what reason do I choose a certain kind of music to embrace me with a sense of time that comes only in this certain way? 

How do I know that the breeze coming through the window is transporting a system of weather conditions that will cause me to cover myself with more blankets when I sleep tonight? I know because the temperature did drop about 30 degrees within the last hour and the window now needs to be shut. 

A good way to derive satisfaction is to do something I have never done before. Like finally taking a camera with me, albeit a little dinky one, to all these glorious places my friend and I go to so that I can drink in the intensity of the way the leaves rustle in the wind, while my friend seeks his best camera shot within close proximity, within a distance where I can easily call to him if I need to. 

And tomorrow, which words will I choose to use for what purpose?

The answer escapes me.

I do not know. 

It is thirteen years later now. The photographer is out of my life and I take pictures of other things now. I live in another location. Both physically and in my mind. 

Time has been tested and passed… with flying colors.


Text © Lyn Horton


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