wading... and the rain continues to rain

"You always paint her from behind?"
"Why is that?"

Why stand in his way - of seeing her?

What a privilege, this light travel. Vulnerable? Maybe. Taking chances with the elements- the critics - but the message isn't in what's missing. You see me in the view I take in, what I pay attention to. I've had to reframe everything in front of me. You'll see no backdrop in my work - get used to it. It shifted. Always was shifting, I suppose. And I'll never take my eyes off it again.

missed you

wading

wading in
not waiting-
autumn promised nothing.

not squirreling-away
but rolling in light
wading in deep
breakfasting on color.

it's an altogether new sensation fumbling into oils without a box of soap to stand on - consumed simply by the changing light we're gifted.
no message this series - just study. just light play. deep breath and color and a need to get closer; forefinger finds her in the sound. brushwork's winter's challenge. gotta get in and get dirty before the light changes. ahtumn. 

treasuring

what does it say that the leaf drew me into the projection - the motion of it, perhaps; the leafness of it. and i wonder what the trained artist would say that it says- about the work. about this viewer's eye. watching the leaf fall again and again miles & hours away, and i'm there. standing alone again while the world spins round and paul rucker is reaching in gently and taking my breath. i checked my tears with fierce respect then, so surprised by my strength for sitting with it all as i stood. the shock & greater challenge? walking away and into the night and into the bubbles on the street and the beauty next door. would a schooled critic name it indulgence- allowing that a leaf might fall from a lynching tree? a lure predicting my sentimentality? or does the leaf predict the predictability of it all. our nature. and the cello repeating and repeating till outside, the urban buzz overtakes, and moments- random moments sweetly begin their assault on eyes and on ears.

i escaped to a high stool in a high window having had my fill of air and art - my art walk consisting of just three galleries in august. eyes dry but distracted, impatient with the gatherings and pretty frocks & hugging in the halls. gut full of empty, needing to write, needing to eat. a plate of spice and a glass of calm, and a pencil and envelope and window -

when a good distance below, invisible as those others had been- those whose stories were nestling in my gut with the drink, nestling on the page - down there near the bus stop i watched his story leaf out. a black man spotted something black on the other side of the cyclone fencing - in the brambles of blackberry & summer spent sweet pea and hip-high golden wheat. as he climbed the fence, the train tracks below the hill beyond the fence and a train that might come added risk to moment, and my dinner lost it's heat. the moment before, sometime before thursday became first thursday: a crime. a backpack stolen, rooted through, thrown in the proverbial bushes. forgotten. in the moment, my urban contemporary naturalist names it treasure. fashion, elegance, artistic tension hum two stories below on my side of the street. on his, something is left in one of the pockets, and he has the time. headphones! backpack back in it's underneath place,cheating the train tracks, not tearing his pants on the way back over the fence, graceful and alone there, smile growing as he fits the treasure in his ears, makes his way to safety, so full of gratitude, reaching up to the sky to thank jesus, invisible to the bubbles on the street - only jesus.

and me.

his eyes meet mine up high in my window, and his smile grows, and mine does too, and he reaches up and my hand is touching the glass and his hand is touching my hand through the window.

who was i kidding. the tears came before the thought.
 

hard to breathe

empty to overflowing. not hit over the head, but quietly, beautifully moved.

if i could have slept with you tonight
curled up with the shadow of you
on cold clean white paint
with the cello
with the cello
with the cello-

i breathe in and out through my teeth
for you
weeping would be all
for me

until the heat heats up

this is my favorite time. inspired by little woolen legs running in the garden - running everywhere - to love thy neighbor, to leave treasures - to find them, to be open to their being out in the open - waiting to be discovered, and regifted.

such a struggle to hold off on the doing till stage is set. for one who tends to think it best to work it till it's ready, woodshedding this time - all the part & parcel stillness - tended toward the painful... the meditative. and this cyclist does not know how to sit still. did not know. had to learn. rounder now, hope pieces that come- if and when- will be richer for this patience. whether in smarts or cynicism, we shall see.

digging in the dirt has commenced - betwixt sunbreaks and gropple. digging through text with intention- my grandmother's narrations; stanzas memorized with mom that summer she decided to make housework memorable; romantic sunbleached undergrad assignments. we have a week left of march, then march into a month of poetry - a month of responding to it. having lost two full seasons of film to my sweet old olympus, there's no choice but to hit the drawing board hard for may magic. bam.

forgive me mother, for i have spinned

it's been six months since my last confession.
measuring abundance in transects & babysitting offers, species counts, and seashells with pinholes perfect for dangling- spring stars for the studio.
accepting.
eagle's there when the uphill gets too steep; an osprey in the soft focus when for sure the sharper gifts me my first rufus.
timing.
time to get dirt under the nails again, and paint where it shouldn't be.
everywhere.
in my dreams.
time.