Yesterday I entered the vivid, hectic, enchanting world of Charles Blackman. I floated from one fantastical painting to the next, lost in a dreamlike realm where I swear I caught sight of the truth. I made a thousand notes, trying to interpret and understand what I was drinking in, to qualify the strange sensations that his colours and characters and symbolism evoked. But there was something intangible about his creations that mocked my attempts at comprehension, a mystery that I could not quite grasp. When I re-entered the city rhythm I felt incongruous-- floating and wonder-filled and quite apart from the people bustling around me.

I went to Brunswick Street with my art book, and sat in my own little world on a couch in the Black Cat, writing pages and pages as I tried desperately to grapple with the source of my vertigo. My attention was diverted when a rather good looking and well dressed man opposite me ordered Chai tea and Baileys, and mixed them together into what looked like the best winter alcohol I've encountered. Observing my curiousity, he introduced himself in a charming accent as Andre, and insisted that I try some. It was warm and sweet and spicy and creamy and delicious. I established that he was Brazillian, and told him my name in Portuguese according to his instruction. Then he wanted to know what I was writing, and so I told him all about the exhibition and why I loved it. Somehow he convinced me to show him the rest of my art book, and the conversation began.

It was an amazing conversation. We touched on everything-- the importance of the ego in human psychology, the culpability of Hitler, the nature of hate and love and indifference. He was a mathematician by trade, and told me that until recently he hadn't been able to see beauty in anything except maths. I displayed signs of incredulity at the idea of beauty in maths, but was convinced when he told me that you get to a certain point, as a mathematician, where you have nothing to go on-- no process, no logic, no precedents-- except a sense of aesthetic, symmetry and elegance. But at the same time, when I suggested that the essence of beauty in the physical world can sometimes be captured by mathematics (phi and pi and sin etc), he rejected the idea, stating that there is no formula to artistic beauty- at least, not of the Charles Blackman- Anna Dixon variety. Later on, as I wondered whether humans would ultimately destroy the world, he said

Nothing is destroyed, nothing is created. Everything is transformed.

From the Black Cat, I took a tram and a train to Emily's house, where I ate goulash and dressed myself in a delightfully capricious black tutu. After much ado in front of a deliciously warm fire, Emily and I and David Wells departed for the party of a magical rainbow child called Christobel.

Saturday was just as a day ought to be-- a brilliant series of inspired follies, each of which made my mind broader and more colourful. Friday night, which I shan't go into, was wonderful in the same way... Unplanned insights and cold hands, followed by a delightfully lateral and agile film ("O Brother Where Art Thou"). Today is my sister's sixth birthday, and I did a portrait of her that I was almost happy with-- I think it captured her expression rather well, and it even looks a little like her. She is at a fairy party now in a beautiful flame coloured dress and a tiara that I chose (which I will borrow).

I haven't written here for a thousand years, so I must try to condense what I've discovered over the course of the millenia. I have finally recognised that when trying to understand the world is is neccessary to both seek simplicity and distrust it. I have considered universities with mounting anxiety, and stewed over which of the possible paths will lead to bigger hunks of freedom. I have come to the conclusion that the liar's punishment is not so much that they are not believed by others, but that they cannot believe anyone else. I fell asleep on a sunbeam, and woke up in a stormcloud, and I wondered if you realise how you fascinate me.

love Anna