The Inner-Peace of a Warm Winter

January 12, 2012

Yesterday I saw bird that I have never seen before. In the middle of a gray day mixed with sunny day I was standing by my back door. A Brown Creeper came hoping up the oak tree next to my deck. All of my life I have looked for a Brown Creeper and then he came to visit me. A birthday bird for me on my birthday.

I have a card on my refrigerator with my Grandpa’s handwriting on it. I look at it and think about how his hand wrote those words. I think about that man a lot.

I am watching a story about how a guy thought he had been bitten by a Brown Recluse Spider. The truth was actually this; he had been injecting drugs into his hand and had become horribly infected. Everyone was pulled into a false story and all had been emotionally attached to a lie. The feelings they had created around this were true. The hand recovered. It is easy to blame a spider.

I noticed that a few paintings I had put out in public last week have disappeared. I screwed them into the wood. Someone unscrewed them. I left them near Oakland Cemetery. The things and posters and signs around them are still there; the peeling gray paint. They still remain. My art is gone. I have to think someone took it. I had hoped it would stay for a while. Is it now in a dorm room or a dumpster or residing with a fine-clothed art collector? I wanted more people to ask themselves is that a buffalo or a cat; a bear or a pig. I suppose scarcity on the streets is a good thing.

I am searching out art festivals around the southeast to apply for. I am writing some people about art-based ideas. I am working out some concepts to propose to a local business owner. I want to paint colors on your white wall. Let them roll down the concrete and then re-paint.

Today I wrote page of lyrics to a song I have carried around in my head for over 10 years. I was making some coffee after a string of early-morning-let-downs when it came to me. I walked to my guitar and got a piece of paper and the next thing you know I had it. I ask you, where have these words been for all of the years? Why did those feelings surface now? Why does a volcano erupt on a certain day? Do you know where you will breathe your last breath? I named the song Hands-New Hampshire.

The human heart is full of color. The human heart is full of God and Love. Tears roll down your soft cheeks.

– kyle