1992:
Everything is snow-covered. Yesterday after school I grabbed my camera and walked around the corner and began to plod west toward the field. It was beautiful in the falling snow and I took about five pictures of it, each one a little closer, the great majestic building and the arch becoming clearer and more detailed all the time, as I made my way across. Everything is snow-covered.

1996:
Walked home in the cold windy night and felt good, felt deep exaltation for the dark rich winter life ahead. I like this darkness, but in a good healthy way. I like the colors and their departure. I like the wind, which maintains change. I am now going to slipwalk down the avenue. The snow is thick and the flakes are large. Dark afternoon outside, pink sky above.

1997:
"My god, it's full of stars." The moon was still hidden, but its diffuse light poured out of a gap in the clouds and turned the water and the rocks an icy blue color accented by silver. It almost appeared as though the sun were hiding behind the clouds and not the moon, and the light being cast down was cold and solarized. I looked at the trees along the shore, at the pines interrupted by bare birch trees reaching up into the sky like spiders, their white bark luminescent in the light of the moon, which was now emerging from the blanket of clouds if only briefly, and the world at my feet grew even brighter, the white stones glared up at me, the lake stretched out silver and black, and I trudged back solitary and sad, but complete.

1998:
I start back towards the car, on a muddy path between the twisted dark skeletons of naked trees and thick, half-intact stone walls. Dark clouds over neighboring villages tell me that it�s raining there; over us the cold clear sunlight shines down. I am ecstatic but miserable, beholding Ireland in an instant and then feeling it slip away, either recollecting or anticipating, going mad over the words to write dreams, to script.

Of course it was bright as day out because of all the like snow and pink sky, and we headed south down Broad Street. Not a creature was stirring, though we could see the revolving orange lights of plows downtown.

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