Am I integrated with the noise. Sandwiched and inseparable from the things I do not understand about history, important people and places, moving parts and the illusion of an open door.
Illusions are synonymous with painting.
So are well worn paths
And the underlying threat of commercial viability.
The dangling carrot.
Or worse, the kid with the dollar bill on a string.
to
Make pictures for picture making sake,
Something that my mother-in-law would like.
The feminine urge for beauty, and competition.
in
Fear of ugly paintings.
Fear of what they’ll reveal to me about myself if I let limp wrists guide me.
Coaxing
Out some kind of truth, some kind of leaning on them for assistance with this gigantic task of summarising what it is I see when I look at you.
When I am driving. Repotting plants. Searching for the horizon. Running fingers through my hair this feeling is not natural.
Nor settling.
Nor finite.
I want to divide myself off into thirds.
This wholeness is far too loud.
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