On painting

I can’t wait to start. Draw, scribble, drip, dry, slap it on, scrape it off. Freedom. Slap it on. Smooth it out. Transparent, opaque, smoky. Saturate it, desaturate it. Shape it, form it. Form less. I tell myself stories, meandering, disconnected, maybe meaning less or more:  She went over here under the heavy overhang, then ran across the road, but when she got there, I didn’t know what to do. Show kindness. Why not. At least don’t be cruel. Especially to animals. And people too. Did you see that yucca, the explosion of buttery petals and dead seed pods. The horny toad. Did you see the scribbly mass of desiccated spikes and roots - wild. The fluorescent lime green moss on the rust rock? Capture it. Not literally. Duh. What did they say? I don’t get why she hates me? Oh. I’ll just hide. Ahhh. More of this. I love it. Or do I! Maybe. Don’t think about it.

Breathe.

Draw it, scribble it. The world, a web, a line.

Cover it up. Scratch it out, bring it back. Etcetera.

Sloppy, silly, serious.

The details matter. Complicate. Simplify.

Tell me everything. Don’t talk about it.

Pile it on, erase it, scratch it out, cover it up. Where’d you go? Glaze over it, cover it up, smooth it out. Oh no, what have I done!

Who cares.

More lines, bigger shapes, scribbles and scratches. Cover it up. Bring it back. Forget about it.

Connect it, erase it. Splat. Drip dry. Etcetera.

More tap than ballet.