Sometimes it's a door, sometimes a window in the stone wall of an abandoned house. Whatever it is and wherever it happens to be, it's a lighted and leafy aperture into a season of waving branches, astringent sap and wild herbal fragrance, birdsong in the overstory, quiet winding waters crowned with yellow spatterdock and white water lilies.
It's a time and a place the elderly artist/scribe knows well - a never ending story that draws her like a magnet through endlessly branching rooms leading one after the other into the greenwood, complete with a wild piper she can hear but never see. This is an eldritch season and wild places everywhere in the north are filled with wonder.
This week it's also an elderly 32-bit PC with a display capability that leaves much to be desired, little or no memory and antiquated versions of all the apps the artist/scribe loves best. Slower than the second coming, this box growls and it lumbers along like a tortoise, but it works, and it gets where it has to go, eventually. As she taps away here this morning, the contents of the old box are being transferred into a brand new 64-bit box with Windows 7 and speed comparable to that of a Porsche 918 Spyder cruising the autobahn in the fast lane. How on earth will she ever make it to Friday? This week's experience will teach her patience, and that is a very good thing.