There is something magical about this picture.  I found it online, and I don’t yet know where this photo was taken.  Where is this garden?  When I find out, I’ll change this post to reflect that.

Keys from a computer keyboard, and they look like gravestones.

This reminds me of the scene in “Iris” when the aging writer Iris Murdoch is on a beach in England with far more stones than sand.

She wants to write, but she can’t remember the words anymore. Or perhaps she can’t remember the letters.  So she takes pages from her notebook and puts them on the rocks, holding them down with other rocks.  She points joyfully to them and says that is her writing.  Her caregiver is distraught at how lost she is.

Yet she wasn’t lost.  I understand this completely.  This is writing.  Trying to hold down thoughts.  Trying to capture the uncapture-able.  Pinning down butterflies kills them, after all.  They are no longer butterflies when you try to define them, to draw them.  Ideas are the same.

This image above speaks to that.  What is writing, but memorializing what was?  The thought has changed now, evolved.