Blank canvases exist in infinite examples. Clay clump to the potter. Tarp to the painter. Pulpy paper to the sketch artist. Glowing blank screen to the journalist without assignment.
When my mind runs out on me again I’ll find a comfortable seat & wait for an idea to start to take shape, follow it with a soft, inviting gusto, & try not to scare it or put too much weight on it, as everything seems to be a game of nonchalantness.
Even inside my own self.
This is my sneaky way or twirling my hair while waiting. Looking at the writer’s block before me as but a cold cube to melt on a slow moving, cool morning. I’ll observe the dewy clover. Feel my shoes get soggy once more. Give some thoughts to getting better at preemptive dressing…
Jumping jacks are always there to help raise the temp.
It’s all process if it knocks something loose.
One time I walked around a dusty, Mexican border town just because I was too close to the country not to go in.
There were dogs running around whom I longed to connect with. Horses stood, idle in small, fenced in areas. There were multiple, bunches of balloons, deflated, tangled party remnants spiffying up the telephone wires. A siesta fiesta. I’d forgotten all my pesos at home.
There was an unexplained, long-ago-discarded fortress in the center of town.
Sometimes I feel like that structure is what my art looks like after a long stint of neglect. Do most people see themselves as structures? As small towns? As cities? I tied myself to that place without meaning to .
So it’s a small blank canvas after all. Or it could be long wall on a short block. Waiting for color & shape; in the darnedest of places.
Pigeon Heart Ponderings 