Wednesday, November 3, 2010


I see a tip brush past my shoulder and watch it splotch a new dot on the canvas. This one is bright pink. The next one is peach. Then soft pink, then red, then ochre. Each touch is a small pin-point. A dot on the surface in front of me and I strain, ache against the urge to take a step back. I lean back instead throbbing to see the view.

I glance up at the wall size mural and see thousands of dots. Hundreds of thousands of tips of tiny colour. Some are more splattered, some are minuscule, some smart with loose edges. But all I can see are orbs.

I remember holding a piece of fruit in my hands somewhere around age fifteen. It smelled beautiful. Like warmth and summer and promise of sweetness. As I turned it in my hand I was mesmerized to discover the advent of pointillism. Against the bright yellow background were hundreds and hundreds of microscopic points. All conglomerating to create fuzziness and the colours of a peach.

I feel dots coming down all around my life. It's so vivid I almost see paint drop next to me on my hardwood floor in my kitchen. I smell turpentine and oils as I lay in bed against my white sheets. I see it dribble down and sprinkle splashes of vivid colour all around me. I squish against my down pillow, I twist inside myself. I long to see what's going on.

The big picture eludes me but I feel doused . I feel speckled with something new. It's less Pollack, more Seurat. It's not romanticism, it's change.

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