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Mixed media

August 26, 2018

You came looking for color.

Many do, and who could fault you? I’ve given you reason to expect it.

But some days my pen is my paintbrush, and the flow of black and white bleeds across the page. The sun rises, the sun sets, and in between are parties and storms and rainbows and sunny patches of flowers left by some previous gardener. In between are death and life, sometimes keeping company in the same room, trading gulps of oxygen.

On the canvas behind your eyes I paint laughter and tears, rage and sleep.  My ink never changes; it is carbon on ivory, rather like the bones tucked neatly inside your earth suit.

I paint blindly, really. I cannot see your canvas. I can only see my own and hope that my brush is accurate enough to provoke you to adjust your glasses, or at least squint a little as you take note of the pictures that dance by—some in delicate pointe shoes, and some in half-laced clodhopper boots that smell like the dead cow they’re made from.

You aren’t likely to understand my ink stains perfectly, although I applaud you when you try. Parties and storms and rainbows and sunny patches of flowers are simply patterns and symbols on a page, and it is you and I who give them meaning…and color.

The pen is my paintbrush, my thermometer, my spear, my lasso, my key ring, my fork, my knife, my prison warden, my instrument, my canister of tear gas, my bowl of incense. Once you receive its fruit, a piece of me lives on your canvas.

You can always paint over it if you like.

But it will still be there.

 

 

 

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