Berlin painting begins

It’s been about a year since I had my own art studio space to make glorious mess. First day in the new place with canvas. Happy feelings with Nina. Covered in imperfection and oils. 

Drafts. Layers. Rusty. Hush. 
Drafts. Layers. Rusty. Hush. 

“Granma, what did you do when there were daily mass shootings in America, warrantless mass surveillance, an unaccountable secret police committing crimes against humanity at home and abroad, and we knew the global ecosystem might be on the verge of collapse but a population at signifiant risk of death or disability from being fat couldn’t be bothered to ride a fucking bicycle?” 

“I went to a safe place with good people and made beautiful art. Eventually. 

I went home. Somewhere I’d never been and couldn’t speak the language. I learned.

I loved and I was loved without measure. A door opened and I entered just to see what was inside, taking in the light but leaving no trace. The reigns of all urgency slipped as I sat with strangers sipping the usual mixtures of strong stuff and melting angles. The frame of the world changed, and changed again. I realized I’d been had and lost because I dared to try. I tried again. I sank beneath my shining hope, and was taken for hopeless. I believed too much, kept faith too long, laughed too loudly, and got away—away so far, it became a toward. And when I finally stopped running, I rode a fucking bicycle. Now go read Arcadia and write President Snowden a thank-you letter before you help past-me procrastinate some more.” 

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