Kage Baker was born June 10, 1952. She died January 30, 2010. That’s nearly 5 years ago. She was a primarily visual person, and always pictured her own moods, thoughts and feelings as landscapes. Then she translated them into words. Usually. Sometimes they stayed as landscapes; some of those became worlds.
She published some of the lovelier ones.
I don’t think in pictures. I think I think in words, but that’s probably an exercise right beside trying to see the back of your own neck. I may be thinking in smells; or undiluted frequencies of light so rarified they don’t show colour except as a notation of angstrom length. Or in a harmony of two frequencies so far up the hertz scale that I’m listening with my marrow instead of my ears. Maybe I think in grain-based beverages.
This is how I feel today:
I just found out that there is fan fiction of Kage’s stories, but I’m not brave enough yet to read it. The idea makes me feel like a private garden has been plowed under a storm of ashes. It’s winter in all my bones.
Tomorrow will probably be better.