Skip to main content

the hat

the hat (2); mixed media on board, 24 x 24 inches, the string series continues


the hat (1); pencil and ink on paper (page from an old math text book).

the hat

It must be August because by afternoon, every afternoon, my intentions are bleary and weak in the middle distance, I'm like some rabbit that's run and run and can run no more, there is heat and there is fear and which way is escape? We turn our heads on the couch as the camera circles the decision. Down here in the basement dark it is the kind of cool where nothing happens, I crawl forward with a big fur hat like something achieved. That rabbit is definitely slowing down, Devon says. Upstairs in the world there is only humidity and salted temper and some fruit fly in your field of vision. I swear to Christ I felt cold on my toes not that long ago. All my plans are abandoned now. We have our naps to look forward to. At night we'll do the city in laps. Someone told me that August is a long month. It looks the same to me. It looks like playing grab ass with the piss end of summer, all those ticking lists and no will (who has will in the sunshine?) and then it's September rolling over on the hard carpet, that old painted whore with her forms and her clipboard. She can have my hat.

Comments

  1. Aii! I know how you feel! I miss the way I complained about the cold just several months ago. Gorgeous painting and sketch!

    ReplyDelete
  2. august, when you realize summer did not meet your expectations

    ReplyDelete
  3. wow dj! i LOVE "the hat" painting! love her pale eyes and hair(my parents and younger sister and one grandfather have that colouring), and skin of this lady which give a wonderful contrast to her dark hat-divine!

    i don't know where the "me" who didn't care about the heat has gone. she was a camp counselor all summer and loved pitching a tent by a big lake, catching bait and fishing and hated going home. she used to go running for miles in the middle of day and would be in cross country practice all day by now for the fall season in either high school or college and then just running on her own "for the fun of it" until she realized that she had always HATED IT! then she would be breathing underwater as much as she could or stuck down in a cold as ice lab for years and years which was fabulous too. now, she can't stand extreme hot or cold because of a new thyroid condition so she is a constant pain to me.

    i am very excited about your book. congrats! i must get a copy which i will read in my freezer, well, probably my fridge.

    ReplyDelete
  4. always love your paintings...

    ReplyDelete
  5. She is my favourite

    I want her

    ReplyDelete
  6. Is it going to piss you off that she reminds me of lady gaga? :)

    ReplyDelete
  7. wow, another gaga-comparasion. aint the first time for me, lol.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and

some paintings to keep you company

  at the stations of seeing ; mixed media on cradled wood panel, 24 x 30 inches.   $350 local.     At the Stations of Seeing I expected something on the level of poetry moving the machinery within but instead it was wreckage and difficult instructions Recursive Procedures for Life Structures and that sort of thing. IF—THEN—ELSE where the option is optional CASE, which is multi-situational DO—WHILE the function is zero BREAK and LOOP again and again until failure. please CALL, if you can, or while you are still missed. . . . I went away for awhile, for various reasons, and now I am starting to come back. Where I finally end up is anyone's guess, but one of the stations on the path of that return is a willingness to sell my art again; this post is about just one of the larger paintings I currently have for sale for clients and customers in the Kingston area. A good place to start. The prices for these works are lower because the transaction is personal, easier — come by my stud