This piece is near to my heart, as are many of my pieces, but if all my creative efforts remained in my heart heaviness might collect there
I’ve shared this piece before, it’s time to share again
after all, ’tis the season of warmth, good cheer, fellowship and peace – I pray❤️
This image sits on the shelf of my bedroom closet where I see it every morning and remember…
Other than this greeting card, I was unaware of Mr Redlin’s expansive body of work or that- “During the 1990s he was frequently named “America’s most popular artist” in annual gallery surveys conducted by U.S. Art magazine.”
Today while writing this homage, I was moved to write Mr. Redlin to thank him. I learned he passed away in 2016.
DS Levy is one of those agile writer’s who slips in dark when you’re headed down a well-lit path. I’m elated she’s returned to WP to share her cosmic talent. DS is a lifelong pursuer of all things ‘writerly,’ and she has taught me much about the writing world. She’s Yoda to my Chewbacca. Check out her new blog and follow along. More marvelous stuff around the corner…
She recently had a flash story, “What I Really Meant,” published in the very cool HOOT Review(April-May 2018). She was so very generous in choosing a figure of mine for her excellent flash story.
I’ve been so focused on improving my writing, I’ve been neglecting my art of late. Someday, I will again have time to do both. I’m thrilled to have my artwork–a large piece 4’x4′ in real life–be featured in, The A3 Review Gold Issue, #8, April 2018–it’s a pocket-sized magazine sizzling with bountiful brilliance. You must check out their website. And if you’re a writer or an artist, I highly recommend submitting work. If your piece is accepted, you’ll get a basket of treasures!
There are parts that work well rolling on the floor. Leave me be. I will find my footing. Unlike her. Don’t you hear the screaming. The window, open like the door but less welcoming. Endless sobs hitting the birds outside. What is she crying about this time?
How she just can’t do it anymore.
Hell, who can?
There are no places to hide when you know all the rooms in your home. I wonder if she’s dying while standing on her feet. My ears are chained to this self-inflicted malaise. Perhaps the plasma screen will extend its curving armature and whisper encouragement as she continues moaning. Wrinkles. Too many.
Forgotten in the dryer, shirts crinkled like a baby’s ass.
Cotton shits wrinkles.
I should be the one crying.