Blot

I’ve got ink on my hands again. If it’s not ink it’s paint, which I still find rather weird and fascinating. Two forms of creation in the same hands, both learning to breathe their own way. Writing has always been a passion. That and music, but there is nothing in this world or compare to music. Not laughter, not color, not chocolate. Seriously.

But I digress…

Writing is a passion long known while painting is a passion recently given light. Never been very good, mind you, but it still comes to be in its own way, its own voice. (More music references. Oy. ‘Me and my Arrow…’)

Plot on the page, blots on the canvas, and now blots on my skin. Ah, creation…it’s messy….