When the strings of my heart start to sever
And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears” -Robert Hunter
Trying out a paper thin wood veneer that has an adhesive backing. Supplied to me from my local art supply store to try out. I adhered it to a piece of cold press art board. Gave it the warbler go, and I enjoy the results. It put up with the eraser plenty well. I’m a big fan of cherry lumber’s color and grain.
Once every few pages I like to draw a place I’ve never been. Or could have ever been. Tonight it was this mountain you could find on California’s central coast….with a Michigan jack pine growing on a cliff. And there’s an owl somewhere in there too if I recall correctly.
She’s as pretty as a thistle.
The morning sky has her color.
Was it an attempt at poetry or just bad form?
When she showed up at my execution with a picnic basket.
I think tomorrow I’ll have an honest breakfast.
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…”
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.
I’ve put a lot of time into my raptors in flight I almost forgot what a challenge a portrait can be. This Red-tailed Hawk helped to remember.
I have written plenty of letters that I never sent. They’re in a box somewhere. Maybe in the closet or under my bed.
Let’s consider this letter sent now.