हेलगा

Helga is pleased. The Butcher has contacted her and wishes her to do a spread sheet with the elite of all sausage, the German Braunschweiger. She will shine her cleaver and spread her legs like the best of her country's damsels.

The Mind of an Artist

The mind of an artist is a curious thing to me. To think in pictures, to dream in tableau-- It is practically unthinkable. It's always words with me. No matter the image, no matter the emotion, no matter the fleeting thought sparking upon the fabric of my mind and bouncing back away through space, tiny yellow footprint left behind; they're always accompanied by words.

I understand the concept, surely. What kind of writer could I ever hope to consider myself if I couldn't understand things from a different point of view? I understand most things from a different point of view. In fact, there are very few things of this nature that I don't understand, or that don't make a sick sort of sense to me. Sometimes I think I'm too analytical for my own good.

But back to the artist's mind. I come across these pictures, and someone must have drawn them. Someone must have brought a pencil to paper, drawn ink from an inkwell, slashed paint across a page. But before all that it's just a thought, and as easily as I can see the likeness (because really, in theory I think the same way, my fingers just write instead of draw) I don't think it's possible for me to think solely in images, even for a short while.

Letters, sentences, words in the mind of a writer, and pictures, paintings, moments in the mind of an artist.