sleep in. Leaf blowing outside. How early they must wake up.
My thoughts are scattered. Trying to share information, I forget who knows what.
Slowly an old idiosyncratic style makes sense.
Fragments.
A word regarding texture eludes me.
Last night someone told me, after looking at my drawing, that someone once told him art was a compulsion, and how as a medic in the war he would find artifacts in the concentration camps. People would find a burnt stick and draw tiny pictures on anything they could find, like a matchbook for example. He noted that my details were tiny too. It was odd.
Is intellectual property right a completely capitalistic concept?
When leaf blowers are blowing do birds still sing? This morning I only heard a crow in the distance over the humming buzz of the leaf blower. Which reminds me, have the birds returned to my bird feeder after it being empty for over a week?
I forgot all about formatting.
Speaking of matting (not really “speaking”) today I’ll frame the drawing of last night.
John Otter 