Mud paint and memories.

Mud paint and memories.

Beth was an artist. On some days, she would take half-filled whiskey bottles and paint her boyfriend’s face on it. The skin would be dark and the nose small, the lips chapped and cheeks flushed. She would color every inch except the small circles in the eyes. She would leave that to the sun and whiskey. It had to resemble his eyes, after all. On other days, she would draw little hearts on her cheeks and let his compliments fill it with color and life. Her favorite piece of art didn’t involve her boyfriend at all, though.

The favorite piece of art was a painting she’d made when she was fourteen. Her dog had just passed away and painting was the only way she could cope with the loss of someone she’d lived with all her life. Her dog, Husky, was a military dog when it was young. Beth’s father had brought him home when he had to (for lack of a better word and to make the dog sound more human) retire. Beth was born a month after Husky came home. They were always fascinated by each other. She had started drawing because of him. On a summer morning when she was just four, she was playing with paper when Husky came running into the house. He ran all over the room, including a paper, with muddy feet and that was her first painting. Paw marks.

When he passed away, she drew his picture. She made the background bright red, just the way he would like it and could almost see him wagging his tail as he went crazy because of the color. She colored everything except his body. For the body, she used the mud from where Husky was buried to give his body its natural color. She had it framed and it still hangs on top of her bed. I’ll leave you with a happy memory, though. 

Ever since Beth was born, she had never had food alone. Husky would always be there to have half of it. He ate everything – ice creams, pie, fruits, socks. Everything.


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For all of us.

For all of us.

Creativity stems from happiness
and happiness from us.
You’ll also find it stuffed inside a Thanksgiving turkey
or playing hide-and-seek with you.
I believe happiness is like a new puppy
Young,
crazy,
comforting,
yours.
(also, happiness is a new puppy
or any puppy.)
Creativity often seeps through
a pain-soaked pillow, too.
A pain-soaked pillow is a story-teller
that emphasizes the right words
whispers its way to the tragic ending
and in my case,
bows down when done.
Memories are the best muse
because they’re the 18-hour-long
exact scene to scene replica
of our book
and that’s something we’ve all always wanted.
Why is this for all of us?
Because we are all artists.
Here’s a short story in a poem
or as I like to call it
‘a beautiful distraction’
(I hope you thought of the person
who broke your heart
because I did)
When Rao made sandals
from unused or old car wheels
and smiled when his daughter
didn’t complain about rocks the next day
you should’ve seen the smile on his face.
Happiness. Pain. Memories.
So hi, artist.
You’ve got so much to learn.


Previous posts: Maybe – A shadow dance.
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When It Comes to Art.

This poem is partially based on facts. So forgive me if you think it doesn’t have a flow, because I assure you that it does have a point. Enjoy!


A painter from Spain made portraits of himself,
From when he was fifteen to ninety years old.
The first painting was a handsome man,
with dark hair like the night,
And lips that could’ve easily been reciting poetry.
The last painting was an abstract living being,
with darkness etched onto his skin,
And eyes that might’ve been insane.
Some people believe that he did slowly lose his mind,
And some believe that he understood the existence of a man,
In respect to time itself.
What was it, Picasso?

Continue reading When It Comes to Art.