Threads of Moonlight
12”x12” acrylic on birch original painting
Here alone, in the refuge of that small green Minnesota cabin my great grandfather built, I’m meant to work and rest. It’s mid-September now and the wind rustling through the leaves is dropping many to the ground. They crunch below my bare feet on the familiar path down to the lake. Battle Lake—I haven’t been here in several years, but can still walk the woods with my eyes closed, guided by my memory and the ghosts of my ancestors.
This painting, the feeling, maybe it’s like being stuck in jello? Oddly, first I think it’s comforting—I’m held and it tastes sweet. But soon notice I can’t breathe in here, my reflection is distorted, no longer sensing which way is is up. Strangers swim by offering directions, but their voices gargle and muffle and I don’t trust their pointing gestures. Without space, I can’t sense time and oh, it’s racing by. The days all blur with the last and the next. All the while, my eye in the sky angels are watching my flail of head and heart. First prodding—now insisting I move. I mean damn, it’s just jello. Grab hold of something. Remember who you are.
12”x12” acrylic on birch original painting
Here alone, in the refuge of that small green Minnesota cabin my great grandfather built, I’m meant to work and rest. It’s mid-September now and the wind rustling through the leaves is dropping many to the ground. They crunch below my bare feet on the familiar path down to the lake. Battle Lake—I haven’t been here in several years, but can still walk the woods with my eyes closed, guided by my memory and the ghosts of my ancestors.
This painting, the feeling, maybe it’s like being stuck in jello? Oddly, first I think it’s comforting—I’m held and it tastes sweet. But soon notice I can’t breathe in here, my reflection is distorted, no longer sensing which way is is up. Strangers swim by offering directions, but their voices gargle and muffle and I don’t trust their pointing gestures. Without space, I can’t sense time and oh, it’s racing by. The days all blur with the last and the next. All the while, my eye in the sky angels are watching my flail of head and heart. First prodding—now insisting I move. I mean damn, it’s just jello. Grab hold of something. Remember who you are.
12”x12” acrylic on birch original painting
Here alone, in the refuge of that small green Minnesota cabin my great grandfather built, I’m meant to work and rest. It’s mid-September now and the wind rustling through the leaves is dropping many to the ground. They crunch below my bare feet on the familiar path down to the lake. Battle Lake—I haven’t been here in several years, but can still walk the woods with my eyes closed, guided by my memory and the ghosts of my ancestors.
This painting, the feeling, maybe it’s like being stuck in jello? Oddly, first I think it’s comforting—I’m held and it tastes sweet. But soon notice I can’t breathe in here, my reflection is distorted, no longer sensing which way is is up. Strangers swim by offering directions, but their voices gargle and muffle and I don’t trust their pointing gestures. Without space, I can’t sense time and oh, it’s racing by. The days all blur with the last and the next. All the while, my eye in the sky angels are watching my flail of head and heart. First prodding—now insisting I move. I mean damn, it’s just jello. Grab hold of something. Remember who you are.