Impressionism

My back yard is one of my favorite places.  To hell with the fact that a train nearly runs through it.  There’s something archaic and forrestry looking about it.  I rather like it.

It opens to a grassy alley which is lined by a vine drenched fence and I like that too.  The fence runs the length of the block.  I know the alley, because I’ve lived here for over a year and last week, in an ambitious and artistic zeal, I cleaned the hell out of it.  My neighbors were amazed.  One even thanked me.  It almost has an English aura to it.  Luckily, on my block, trash is picked up out front two days a week.  So it doesn’t go out back to the alley.

I’ve learned to love little snippets of beauty in my life.  A grassy alley with a fence topped with fat vines which are coated with deep green leaves.  It’s so tranquil.

I see color in splotches.  Sometimes in lines.  I don’t think I’m all that different.  It’s just that I paint what I see sometimes.  In fact without trying too hard, I could see the Matrix codes in this piece of nature.

The inspiration to clean out my alley came one evening when I was hanging out a few pieces of clothing on the line.  I heard the distinct noise of a two legged being walking in my back yard.  I quickly went inside.  I was afraid.  Then I became pensive.  Then I got angry.

Thanks to a great pair of loppers, I can see in the alley and in the extreme northern part of my back yard.  I even did my neighbor’s fence row, the lot next to his house and the little city park just a few yards from my front yard.

It looks much better and I can see.  I was spared the nausea of listening to a jaded cop and all that crap.  Sometimes, they cut me off from legal protection.  I never know why or what it means.  For the better part of a year, I was stalked by a some wierd guy. 

At any rate, my memory of the back yard, as I sit here, nearly 1 mile away, comes to me in impressionist squalls.  Remembering in color is cool. 

Painting impressionist is like catching the hour of original eye contact, or at least the sun’s position upon one’s last memory of the object. 

I’m fascinated with lines also.  Tree trunks are the vertical segments which restore a sense of immortality and time.  Reminders of reality and it’s common sensical consequences.  Tree trunks are also invitations to look up. 

I love trees. 

 

 

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