the other day I had these thoughts; to the nature of art making., of
my art making.

While looking at a Bonnard, full of straw yellows and scarlet reds,
a confection of light and licking brush strokes (a women seated at
a table by a window, fussing with some ribbon, possibly lost in
This flew true my head,

you've been given a fat lip by your lover the night before.
they bit you hard, laughing the whole time, not letting go for an
you've bled pretty good, and you both licked it up greedily
laughing all the way to the bank
the next day
you sit at your desk, with this glorious fat lip
swollen and soar and a knowing smirk smeared like the blood from
the other night across your face.
you can't help running your tongue over it. remembering it, the act
of it. Can you?
break the skin, encourage the pain
remember the gush of beauty of it.

I've stopped painting for awhile.
I tried to paint the light of the sun, to paint a swoon. to paint
every time I finished one it burst into flames, leaving me only with
ashes,(pigment and plywood)
residue/failure...a mere copy of heaven, a poor interpretation...