turning in

 

Somehow I will slip under that heap of pillows and comforter. They will grumble and shift around and purring will put me to sleep.  Outside, moonrise, lamplight, and dandelions. Even as I tried for another shot, the clouds swallowed the moon and we will be in the shit all day tomorrow, tornado watches and all.

stretching

It has been a very long time since I've picked up a brush.  I have brushes that I skipped lunch for a week to buy in the late sixties. The Golden fluid acrylics were speculative sometime last year. Untouched until this morning. I dug them out of the closet when I was putting away the little river basket. A whim.

Acrylic paint. The perfect medium for people who are in a rush for results. Why am I in such a hurry?

Like cloth, paint on paper can be cut up when it goes wrong. And a lot of it went very wrong. 

 Dismembered. Repurposed. Like cloth. but faster.

What is my rush? Spring?

Something to consider.

Then, in the rush, the hurry, something emerges. A way of moving the paint. an attitude.

Something that might have spirit. Direction. 

I need to remember that I'm still only cracking my knuckles. 

Playing it safe

 

This, I could do.

~pause for breathing~

Nope and nope. Cloth, thread, and needles go back into the closet until I'm not faking it. Been down this road (and ruined too many decent starts) to ignore the signs. 

I compulsively over-stitched a passage yesterday morning because "the light was so good" or "I was avoiding responsibilities" or any of a long list of doing something for the wrong reason.

And so I spent a teeth-grinding hour picking out stitches that were put in to STAY, as if this would become a wash-twice-a-week baby blanket. 

If there had been a shredder in the room, it would have been well fed. 

The design was just okay. Rushed the basting just as I predicted I would. There is not enough heart or energy here to keep me in the proper follow-through mode with stitch elements as carefully considered as the shapes and colors of the cloth. I went in Helter Skelter and after this first pass on the light blue, I was lost and floundering. 

 I don't see or find "things" in my work and I'm always surprised when others do. My eyes look for balance, negative spaces, color edge energy, lines, and movement. Just an old-school abstract expressionist still wishing for 10x20 foot canvases. 

It's been like this for a long time. 

Next time I pick up the cloth I will machine piece a few blankets. Be useful like cloth.

For now, I have other things on my mind.

Edits

That's more like it.