Flowers everywhere, big and little canvases. Flowers on things, in pictures inside pictures (there are flowers decorating the frog teapot and the super expensive basket that I’m painting from a photograph because I’m not rich).
Paintings of flowers and paintings of things that have flowers on them abound here. And so there are multidimensional flowers and hidden dimensions of flowers. It’s like “string theory” in physics only this is flower theory.
I guess that makes me a theoretical florist.
The queen conch shell is essentially radial. It has these spokes that go outwards from its folding calcite structure. You could think of them as shapes somewhat like volcanic cones, and they sprout along the undulating surface of the shell, forming its outer layer. Inside, the shell rolls in upon itself creating inner chambers where the animal has lived during different phases of grow.
That’s the shell.
The background is a very dark blue cloth. It might be reminiscent of the sea, which is after all where the Queen Conch lives.
Above that imaginary horizon … I’m not quite sure what these other things are — triangle wedges. They are dynamic shapes. They echo the spikey-ness of the seashell. But beyond that, they (I refer to the negative shapes) have yet to be identified.
It’s dark and gloomy outdoors.
It’s partly cloudy indoors. I have these marvelous plans, but I must be patient about realizing them. The weather itself makes one lethargic. A dog is whining again — not the big dog. Now it’s the little dog. The big dog is asleep.
I could fall asleep. It is great sleeping weather. It’s a chore staying awake. It’s one of those grey wet days when Nature persuades you — nearly — that this is what eternity looks like. I could swear that time has slowed down. Physicists should study this phenomenon to learn whether time creeps by more slowly on dismal, damp, grey days.
Well, they would if they could, I guess. But any physicist brought into this situation would feel the effects himself. Sleeping physicists can tell you nothing.
So whence motivation? Where does energy come from? It’s a rabbit. And you pull it out of a hat.
My fish have lost their substance. Sometimes they nearly lose their very fishness. Without color, swimming in thought, not water. Without blue. Fluidity becoming line.
They became lines. Line fishes. Bendy. Aiming. Curvalinear. Unsubstanced. Black lines. Thin lines. Intentions.
Gestures of upness and downness and all aroundness.
They used to be fish, but now they are records of my handwriting.