Last night we met Dan out at a screen printing warehouse that regularly hosts local talent—musicians, painters, photographers. He set up a sumi ink station by the cold wind draft garage doors and my family went to work on the large newsprint paper provided. Like the ink wash masters of pre-indoor plumbing Japan we went at it without hesitation. Unlike the masters, we didn’t care if the royals liked it or not. We weren’t making swirling leaf poetry. We were local yokels, imbued with our own luscious funk, out grooving with live music on a Saturday night.
However, earlier in the day, like the master’s admiring gardener with some talent, I was caught in my own flux of swirling leaf poetry. I found a college photograph of Rose in the basement box and brought it to the studio window to set my morning thoughts right for paint.
A haunting photo of private beauty, lust, want, daring, and desire. From a time a year or two before we met. I painted her in front of me walking to class. I didn’t know her, and she wouldn’t want me. I was carrying my Whitman down to the lake. I would wash my arms and face leaning over the shore rocks of blue Ontario. I would read and journal and dream. I had a Whitman hat and soft eyes and rolled a Drum tobacco cigarette to smoke in honor of the girl I saw walking to class, the poor girl I would meet one day and marry.
Great date last night. Pow!