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Thursday, November 8, 2007

Gray matter

When you dig, you have to consider the tools at hand. My inspiration, my dying friend and my paint palette, only succeeds at scraping a mole hill of beans. I feel as though, as I excavate the facts at hand, I sift air for meaning. Outside the realm of my brain, or at the very least outside the gray areas we "don't use", my heart is a pump. I feel it when I run. My spinal fluid shakes my bones into awareness when I try to sit still. My brain, my big, globular, overcast, gray brain, holds my emotions and ALL my realities. It scoops and burrows itself into colorful, acceptable, painful, iconic, small beginings. Who knows if my reality really is? Does it change for every brain? Am I making a mole hill out of a mountain? acrylic on paper 11 x 7 inches
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