Deep. Indigoes and greens.
End of the shaft.
Yet never been.
Or anyone’s Wish
There’s a thrill of cold and nerviness in my left arm. A kind of held breath weightiness, floating.
Sinking into the pigment, into the paper. Drying up. Suddenly you want a sensation not known on land.
Water and sky commune, leaving land alone.
Looking back at Mermay. Willow and old sketchbooks- and even older aesthetics:
Canopies, bells and frills
Hiding in skirts.
Sharps in the folds.
Dangerously beautiful Austere loneliness beckoning a touch.
It’s a frightening and disgusting and world overturning thing to discover insects among the petals.
How could this be?
Why do barbs and thorns exist.
< scorpion rose
Gree the scorpion body grows into a great big centipede (so he could be many insects in one, but he starts off that way.)
And Willow, well she’s a rose.
I’m still flabbergasted by how that turned out.