my process involves fidgeting, writing, reading, watching, listening, walking, being outdoors, and just flat out making when i've no idea what to do. the making will lead to ideas. ideas lead to making.
normally my sketches are full sized and end up being the end product. tubes simply wont fully obey to be something that they are not, so i have to find a way to work with the material that it agrees with. today i sketch, sketched. not my usual practice, just did.
i walk a lot. for what ever reason, i am compelled to be outdoors, to be walking, to be absorbing what is not me.
so close, surely the wake of my passing stirs the fine hairs on her pale petite eye glassed face as she utters, leaning into her brother, staring up at me, "is that Miss Johnson? Miss Johnson...is it? but her (meaning me) hair isn't curly. it would need to be dyed black..." a smile stretches across my lips, not for her because she is already several paces back, but just for the hearing of her lilt little voice floating along side me. she doesn't have a splattering of faint freckles bridging her nose, but in this moment, i want her to. almost speaking, staying to play. hesitant for it wouldn't be very strangerly of me.
even at an amble, the trestled bridge trundles underfoot. the path now lines with child high wild flowers. lush weeds. purples. pinks. it feels good, a sense of wooded home. up the hill following the rustling of the river, the road narrows, as I enter the cooling canopied lane. is it wrong that i am thumbing out each move? mmmm. pedalogical wander lust.
from forest to farm, i move. ha. this black shadow beast put a yearn in me for my own dopt happily munching in mischief unfenced. i listen