Forgot to look at the sky…

I wish I could take you to where I was standing. The dirt under my shoes where I stood. Head tilted back. staring up at an open sky watching a single hawk fly.

Imaginations turned it into more, as imaginations will do.

Feathers are brushstrokes on the sky and I always forget to look at it.

What was the color?

I liken it to my consistent failure at remembering names of people I’ve just met.

“Althea? My name is Ben, It’s very nice to meet you…”


Finishing a page with the radio playing.

9pm and there is a record playing in the corner. The dust is audible on the speakers, like sunshine through a dirt stained-glass. I’m halfway through the watercolor on this particular page. I got thirsty so brushes went down. Riding my bicycle to the store for a backpack full of Orange Peach Mango juice. A Barn Owl screeched at me from its perch in the palm. Heard but not seen.

The store was busy, I got my juice and left. The sound of the owl still bouncing around in my head.

The story ends with this page here before you.

Still dust through the speakers though.


Been here so long he’s got to calling it home

I’ve mentioned before my early fond memories of the night sky of Michigan’s upper peninsula. It captured my imagination early in my life. And throughout I’ve looked for ways to trap part of that beauty onto a page. While I held some successes and failures at that form. A good friend of mine has managed, with a wonderful success. He has repeatedly captured in his preferred medium that exact emotion that overcomes me when I tilt my head back on the right night.
 I first became friends with the human that is Mark Gvazdinskas, before I became friends with the artist that is Mark. Though it easily could have been the opposite, as they are both two sides to a righteous and honest coin of a man.
When I write that my friends and family do a great deal to inspire my work. One look through his portfolio will do justice to my words, and I’m confident inspire you as well.
Do explore his wonderful corner of the internet.

Pages in a pile, left with a smile.

Sometimes It would seem, the words I want to write are buried by drawings. Much like the leaf piles in my youth. I cherish the fall time in the Great Lakes. Raking the leaves or sketching the form allows me to briefly move past to the next. Some of the words get clearer but there are always more leaves and images. This realization could drive one mad if it weren’t for a children’s perspective kept intact. And I do take delight in diving into the pile of inspiration I gathered in the yard of my imagination. If only to show it to you tomorrow and again.