How it should be that I’m sitting in the glow of this lone computer screen and a sextet of candles, scared out of my mind and listening to Philip Glass and his take on ‘Dracula’, is not entirely known to me. I ventured into the attic in the early hours of night, where it was dark and cool – not cold like winter, merely cool, as befitting of fall. This once-cozy place turned into something infernal once the candles were lit and the diabolical score for ‘Dracula’ began playing. It is, I suppose, the season to be frightened.
A pointed hat is perched on the edge of the wooden desk. A pair of stones – one of rose quartz and one of carnelian – sits in the center of a mushroom-shaped pedestal. A brooch of indeterminable origin occupies another mushroom-like bowl. The candlelight is little solace, the flames dancing in macabre and unpredictable fashion, skittering like the violins across the darkness.
It’s just pre-project-birthing nerves, perhaps, the usual doubt and fear that accompanies any creative release, even if there is distance from when this one was written. Thirteen years of distance. It does lend a certain enchantment, a protective talisman to keep the demons at bay, if only for a night. When the harsh light of day returns, there may also be terror.
And then the start of the ‘FireWater’ journey.
Walk with me…
