This was my first attempt at a poured acrylic painting. It was made using an inexpensive set found at a discount store. The "canvas" is more like a textured piece of cardboard. But it came out suprisingly well. The colors aren't captured correctly by the scanner, but the spirit of the painting is intact. I suspect this won't be my last.
Side note: it's difficult giving abstract art a title, but "What Happens in the Dark" popped in my head. So there it is.
The following was spontaneously composed on my AlphaSmart Neo2, a 90's vintage educational device adopted by thrifty writers as a distraction-free writing device. This is evidence that writer's block doesn't exist. The words are all around us. Just listen, and look.
Sometimes, you can't find the words. Just underline where they would go and keep going. Fill them in later, Mad Libs-style, or leave it to the reader's imagination.It's 7:39 am and the house is quiet. But it isn't. The ceiling fan in my wife's home office whirs rhythmically, and I just realize the refrigerator had been humming in unison--harmony?--with it. But the fan is having it's solo. I notice a nearly imperceptible ringing in my left ear--tinnitus or interference from the army of electrical devices that _______. Down the street, to the left, a dog barks, off and on. Birds chirp from the wires in the back yard. The kittens patter around, creating punctuation of pounces on rug over hardwood floor. The calico licks my bare toes, lightly. Her tongue is a stiff-bristled brush of hooks on flesh. The calico joins her sister, a bicolor brown tabby, in the window. Their tails swish silently, in unison. The calico has settled on the back of the couch near the window, watching as the tabby scans the sky and ground for something, anything, that moves. She repositions herself, then crosses the back of the couch to the other window. An airplane can be heard making the final turn to line up with the runway. And now another. The airport is small, serving mostly private planes. But I wonder, who with the means of a private plane would come to Riverside. Is it merely a stop on the way to somewhere important? If I had a plane, I would fly to anywhere but Riverside. I love Riverside--all but five or so years have been spent here--but the world is large and I've seen the smallest fraction of it. The ceiling fan and refrigerator are singing harmony again, as cats patter across the back of the couch.