Snippets of conditions in which to paint are hard to come by in my current circumstances where there is little to no predictability. I call on the trust I've always held for the unfolding of my creative life, no matter its pace or form.
All right, all right, all right. I confess: I am impatient.
About painting.
About healing.
Especially and repeatedly and fiercely about wanting healing to manifest.
And so it seems only appropriate that I wish to appropriate the concept and cadence of Pat Schneider's poem The Patience of Ordinary Things.
My version:
It's a kind of love, is it not?
How the brown glass bottle holds the tincture,
How the calendar hangs on the wall, with appointments in squares,
How our phones receive the typing of texts
Or emails. How the muscle of our hearts
Knows what it is supposed to do.
I've been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how silverware
Waits patiently in drawers
And dishes dry quietly on the tea towel on the counter,
And bookmarks keep track
Of what page we will read next.
And the lovely repetition of slats in window blinds.
And what is more generous than a painting in progress?
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| works in progress |
