How else to describe it?
An understanding so personal
So deep
For me?
Yes
And for you

Reading today
Drew tears out of me
And laughter in between

Never so real
Never so true
Never so hopeful
Never so fulfilling

Remember that place?
Perfect peace and contentment
Perfect harmony against mothers breast
Protected and safe
We all had at least a moment

And now we chase it
Searching for that first high
We all look for that, today
Where is it?
Every mirage evaporates
Lies

Nothing compares
Not this art
Not my success
Not my version of reality
Nor my expression of it

There’s only One best reason
To be human
To experience
To thrill
To awe
To be

Named Jesus Christ
He is as He is
Nothing more
Nothing less

Escape from pain
From fear
Loathing
The abyss so naturally calling
The darkness so appealing

Awake crackheads, awake!
He is high and the price is

Free

Every week I try to spend at least one day sketching at the Chazen Museum. Here are the results.

My Own Personal Jesus

Maternity

Today I spent all day cutting up 50 foot dead trees
and a couple that were long dead 

It was cold outside
with 10 or 12 of them

Dry to the core
ready to be burned
they were more than forms
they were hard and resisted being dismembered
fighting back with stinging slaps 

It was cold outside
it felt good to be outside, even if it was cold

It felt like being a man, cutting up trees with other men
then using tractors to load them onto trailers
the scraps into a burn pile, still waiting to burn

I liked being with men, cutting up trees
it was like chainsaws
loud laughter
noise
smells
jokes 

Like being in the world and alive

Then later
when the other men were gone
it was just

me

cleaning up debris against a setting sun
that hides behind gunmetal grey
with my rake and tractor
with a cold wind and snowflakes
that felt good
because I was working and hot

even though it was cold outside today

Today the indian is leaving
Ice and water will fall
Crushing yellow gold and red
Our deep slumber accented with moments
Smothering sound and light
Strange peace and warmth under cover
A trip with friends incandescent
We’ll all wake together and fly away

I used to write all the time. It was luscious and engrossing. Writing made the final connection between the hydrant in my head and the hose releasing pressure and anxiety. Lately I have been having great difficulty with my painting  - wondering where I should go next, if anyplace at all. Maybe painting is finite for me, a train that took me someplace and now asking me to get off. I feel I am at some sort of crossroad, unsure of a direction. Friends can’t help me, spouse can’t help me, God can’t tell me. I have to choose my walk. I have to put one foot in front of the next. And so, with graphite and colored pencil, I begin again.

Adams County Woods

Chazen Museum Girl

On the Banks of Stohr's Park

In a ditch, outside Milton

Viroqua Shed

Across the Road

Wheat