fingerpainting

there are those who would say that it is childish. i agree wholeheartedly but i’m not sure why that is such a problem. sure i might be twenty but who says i can’t do things that don’t require vast amounts of worldly experience or high school graduation? #painting is #perhaps the most respected of the fine #arts. blatantly professional, viewed with such talent, provided the #painting is done with oil, #canvas, and exactly no numbers over which to place the #brush. graffiti has become an #art to be reckoned with even if the vast majority of so-called #artists are simply tagging things with their name and making buildings desperately require cleaning instead of #painting something striking or beautiful or contemplative or even creative that could give #art to a city desperately in need of it, as all cities everywhere are. still, if one says something negative about spray#paint in polite #artistic company (does such a thing exist somewhere?), there would most certainly be cross words and the speaker would most likely be covered in said spray#paint relatively quickly. or whenever he next sleeps. #perhaps both.

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beating in time

it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. time, in fact, stood still for her, peering longingly into the #water as it circled the drain. it was her custom to step out of the #bath and be dry by the time the #water had finally gurgled into the arcane pipework but she felt stunned to the point of inaction. time not only stood still but stopped her from standing at all. it was, after all, bedtime and darkness had fallen on the small cottage as #water poured hot and steaming from the antediluvian faucet, moistening porcelain and warming the cold room as bubbles and salts mixed with steam and caused apple blossoms to fill the december night as it would be in september. plunging up to her neck in the #water, splashing the #floor without even noticing, holding her breath and her head under the #water until it would appear to an observer that she was testing the limits of her lungs’ capacity to spontaneously cease respiration. she was typically calm. it was different this time. calm had not given way to mania, happiness, relief, or even their sad counterparts. this was shock. carla sat rigid watching the #clock on the wall #simply say seven minutes past eight, #morning or evening making no difference, realizing only after minutes’ contemplation that the #clock itself had no power to move and was stuck, much like carla herself. it was that #morning that gin had left her. left in the conclusive sense, that is, not in the leaving for work as they had done every day since their wedding. when carla awoke, gin was already dressed, sitting on the end of the bed, suitcase at her feet. she #simply said “i don’t need time. i don’t need to think. i know that it’s over. #please try to #survive without me. i won’t stop loving you but i cannot stay.”

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war stories

They tell me that war changes men, makes them wild. That’s only the weak ones, though. He was sad when it was unavoidable, happy when it was ended. A lifetime of harsh realities, defeated by laughter. Memories depart quickly but I always feel at home there. Continue Reading…