31 05 2011

Seattle in spring bursts forth with a vibrancy of color I’ve not known anywhere else. Even on rainy gray days such as this one my walks are an exercise in ADD as my attention flits from red to blue to green to purple orange yellow green again pink and pause…breathe… With so much colorful splendor in my environs impressing itself upon me I’ve found myself compelled to attempt to create something, anything, with even the possibility of being as arresting as a simple flower. As soon as I move in July I will begin shaping my new space by planting and nurturing color (and food!), but until then I’m making do with watercolors and chalk–not the easiest media in the world to convince to play nice together, but two things that remind me of kindergarten and silliness for silliness’ sake.

I lean toward hiding these creative caperings from the world unless/until I feel I’ve crafted a masterpiece. It’s quite intimidating to even think about putting my amateur color blending skills on display where they can be critiqued and criticized and scoffed at. If I hadn’t just spent the holiday weekend alone in my room, becoming bored by my own company, I certainly wouldn’t be doing this. But I did, so I am, and together we’ll see what comes of it, eh?

I will make one allowance for my shame: you don’t get to see my creation unless you click on past the jump.

This image was inspired by a poem, found below, by John “Jack” Leax after reading through a simple interview with him.

4 AM Meditation on the Baptism of Christ

Were this watch chosen, I would be still,
this wakefulness a quiet waiting
for the light rather than this agitation
this restless tossing after sleep.

My dreams, too often dreamed
to appear strange, wake me. “Drill here.
Drill now,” the nightmare politicians
chant as if the world were a tooth decayed:

native peoples float away
islands slip from underfoot
swimming bears tire and drown
in the rising tide of money money money.

The camel strains in the needle’s eye.
Wanting ever more, the cheering crowd
will not yield even the riches
it can not have. What have I to hold

against this dream? A cup of cold water.
A cup of blood. Crumbly bread
and the poverty of hope. Christ Jesus,
floating, swimming, going down.




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