I’ve been opening up paints for over 25 years and what I hadn’t considered until recently is that they, in fact, have also been opening me. Testing my skill, my endurance, my ability to accept flaws: in my painting and in myself as a human.
After all this time, there is a comfort in the simple exercise of twisting off the paint cap. There’s a will, an intent to continue. Yet I still remember how unfamiliar and tentative I felt the first time I ever opened a tube of paint. I had no idea the power it would have over me. How it would cause a reaction in me. How the tube of paint once on the canvas would test me—what would I do with that Cobalt Bue? How does my colour make you feel? it would silently ask. And that
art Henri Matisse
He rushed past the threshold
With barely a glance back
No concern for his son’s lost shoe
Or his daughter’s missing “my little pony”
It’s woman’s work
And he need not bother
He works hard, he explained
But went to great pains
To catch a game
He was important, you know
Above menial chores
But he would soon learn
The cost of his absence
Could not be repaid,
Ever, amen
And the perpetual woman’s work
Came to an end, left undone
When the love dried up
Only a fool assumes she will forgive
Without appreciation for the little things she did
Like a kettle overboiled scalding his heart
The scar will remain long after she departs
Memory of her holding their son,
Or kissing a boo-boo,
Vivid and clear
Woman's work endeared
Many years later
The lonely man advises the younger,
"As you pass the threshold
Remember to glance back
For you never know
Which day will be your last"
Hello Sleevers, t’s been a while since we’ve talked. Life has been interfering with my blog.
I hope you are doing well. I thought a nice way to ease in back here is to share what I’m currently reading, doing and anticipating this Spring. We’re half way through spring, that’s true but it’s not too late to share what’s happening mid-season.
First, let’s talk books.
When I was a child this odd and haunting song was often heard on the radio. I didn’t know what it was called or who sang it but it was both dreamy and sad. Something about life’s illusions. What even are life’s illusions? I would ponder.
There was a carousel or was that a different song? No, it was a ‘ferris wheel’ and a ‘circus crowd’.
In a world of increasing Artificial Intelligence, are you missing the human touch? I am. In 1992, Bruce Springsteen penned a song titled “Human Touch”. I suppose he was ahead of his time.
image source; Unsplash by ThisisEngineering RAEng
These days, the human touch seems to be missing, a dreadful consequence of automated life. It’s not that I’m a super social butterfly–in some ways I am the opposite. I prefer to remain in my studio, as many writers and artists do, rather than host a party for example.
Welcome spooky, October…looks like me trying to come up with a brilliant blog post…
Well, September came and went in a flash. I didn’t write one post here and that is a first for me. I have never gone a whole month without writing something here. Should this concern me? I remember the early days of my blogging back in 2011-12 and I didn’t understand bloggers who would take long, unexpected breaks but now I do. They had been in the game for several years and eventually, we change.
You are an unfinished poem Stuck in my heart, Appearing on the horizon Like an unanswered question Simple as one-two-three, Further from reality But as real as flesh on bone The lively echo of your smile Keeps me thinking, What's left incomplete Is sometimes just as sweet As the holy "amen" At the end of a silent prayer -LTW-
I’m thinking there are two types of people in this world: those who mend and those who discard. Actually let me add a third type; those who want to mend but cannot. They take their mending to have it done by a pro (smart folks).
I used to be in the second and third category but as I’ve gotten a bit older, I mend more often. Since I was a child, I have almost ‘enjoyed’ sewing by hand. Almost. My grandma taught me how to thread the needle and how to make a few stitches. I used to watch her ‘darning’ my father’s socks when she came to stay with us. She was pretty good with a sewing needle. She did not have a sewing machine.
I’m still here. It’s been quiet here but I’m —STILL.
I’m still singing along to the radio
I’m still lying awake and staring at the ceiling
I’m still asking why
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