strange, quiet evening
Images fall from my mind.
Onto the screen.
Weird shapes drift in—
half-formed, half-forgotten,
a language my mind invents
without translation.
I call it play—
just colors, shadows,
ideas stitched crooked,
but maybe it’s me
working out loud,
letting the canvas
speak in tongues.
Weird mind,
weird hands,
but sometimes
that’s where the beauty hides.
Quietly compelling, Dave. The notion of the canvas “speaking in tongues” is a perfect description of that playful, pre-verbal phase where meaning hasn’t settled yet. The “half-formed, half-forgotten” and “ideas stitched crooked” feel true to how beauty often slips in at the seams.
— Abbie