Observations (in the raw)
I just made my morning venture to the studio. It's how I start my day. I go there to see what has transpired while I slept and to see if the previous day's efforts still hold up to a new day's scrutiny. Today, I was greeted with something unexpected. On the doormat was something biological. My best guess is it was the entrails of a rabbit. Just the entrails. No fur, no bones, no blood, just entrails, so pristine and unmarred, they could have been surgically removed. Was it a gift? Was it a warning? Who uses my porch and doorstep when I sleep? It was probably a coyote or an owl, perhaps, or maybe some other creature that prefers the dark to the light.
When we are young, we live for the night. As we grow old, we live for the morning.
Pat Greenwell is an artist. A painter and sometimes poet, he has been searching the New Mexico desert for a couple of years now, looking for lost possibilities and probable intentions.
"...mostly stream-of-consciousness stuff, you know...