"A Kiss" October, 2010, pen and paper. Showed in the Tata Gala online exhibit in honor of breast cancer awareness. "SEAMONSTERS" December, 2009 oil on wood painted from a photo.
Scraggly Hairless Tail lumbers across the straw. Nose rooting for rodents, mud on paw. 'Tis a shame to see symbolic tail reduced to twiggy rope. Parasite or accident perhaps? Down down the slope. With morsel, I hope.
The swampy pit is now a veritable lake. The Earth's crust breached, giant rocks adorn the edges of the water. The only sign of life is the neon yellow vests operating CAT and surveying the work with poised grunt. Not a snapper to be seen. A golden mess of straw lines the muddy edge. I had almost forgotten what that lighting could look like what with our onslaught of gloomy days. The neon vests are almost done covering up their mess. My entertainment will come to an end. I suppose there is always the news... If I want a more dismal source of occupation. Would you rather be a snapping turtle with your mucky home unstuck? Or would you rather be governed by the squalid few who ignore their people gone amok?
(This was meant to be published on 11/6/2020. Better late than never?) My fingers are clenched on the edge of my seat, as I'm sure are yours. I've stopped counting days and they've stopped bleeding into one. The New Times routine has taken root. There is comfort in routine. No more need to count the days anymore. But I find myself counting other things. And there is only one count that matters today. My neck can't possibly hold any more tension. Not without me being rendered helpless on the floor again. The school gave the kids steppers to keep them active. I got myself one, too. There's yet another count. Tapping my feet doesn't give me steps, but bouncing on the yoga ball does. How many steps can I make before the votes are in? Pacing helps. I think? Or maybe it feeds the madness. There is only one count that matters today. Please let it count.
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