Category Archives: Art

2020 – 365 er-366?

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I guess you may have noticed the increased activity around here…..

Well…I’ve made a commitment (I refuse to call it a ‘resolution’ since I have come to the conclusion as I approach The Big Five-Oh that very little, if anything, can be truly said to be ‘resolved’, especially any of my wishes or desires….they are always changing and swirling off into the mist…).

Yes, I’ve made a commitment. To my self. To this blog. (And I guess to indecision itself since I haven’t even decided just precisely what this commitment will be, but only that it is, indeed a commitment [nothing like starting things off with a whimper, and not a bang…] of the most basic sort.)

I’ve made commitment to (at least) one post per day for the entire year of 2020.

It may just be an image by itself most days (and possibly probably just something cherry-picked from the archives [if when I’me feeling lazy]) some most days but hopefully some words will find their ways back onto these pages.

Who knows, maybe I’ll actually see something (or say something) that I didn’t (or couldn’t?) see (or say) before…

I used to regularly consult the I-Ching, not with the thought, “Here is an Oracle that will tell me….(something)”, but rather with the idea, “Here is a different way for me to look at my self, a way to surprise my self with what I find.”

So maybe this is kind of like that.

Here’s to surprising our selves with our own art.

Here’s to giving an Umph to Omphaloskepsis…and to the hope of finding bogeymen and fairy dust amongst the lint and the dander!

Here’s to getting back to The Work.

This is a thing that is happening on its own. It is owning itself and owing nothing to any one (including [and perhaps especially] me [I’m pretty sure I didn’t come up with that bit about the lint and dander and such…]).

I think that I have already lost control of it….so let it be….

(EDIT — so let it be….2020 – 366! 2020 is a LeapYear! Doh!)

Child of the past of the father of the future

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I see you there 
on the other side
of forty-seven,

waiting for me
like a father,
like a child,

looking up,
looking back,
waiting for me

to catch up,
to start making
sense of what I see.

Well, stop.
I won’t do it.
I can’t do it.

This is why I 
do what I do
and you know it.

So stop. Stop waiting.
Stop wasting both
of our times.

I’ll get there 
when I get there
or maybe I won’t.

You’ll just have to 
wait and see or
wait and not see.

It’s all the same to me.
I don’t care anymore.
I will do what I do.

Utensils

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“The world is a stew,” 
he said.  “it's all a 

boneyard,” he said.
There for the picking.

And now, the pot 
itself is melting.

The stew is a study 
in oxidation and rust.

The first of its kind.
The last of its kind.

“The world is a stew,”
he said.  Get a fork.

Un-Cooked, a haiku sonnet

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(inspired, yet again, by a conversation with Natalie/potterfan97)



here’s a piece for you—a 
slab on the boards waiting for 
the knife of your eyes.  

it drips from my mouth.  
there is blood in it.  there is 
iron and weakness 

in it.  it turns from 
red to ochre in the air.  
can you smell it?  it's 

starting to rot.  can 
you stomach it?  your gut must 
match its emptiness 

or it will infect you and 
eat you from within.