Crimson Moon (Mixed media)

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Day 98.

Silent orchestra. Silent for now while my ears grow accustomed. New sounds, new melodies but the beat is as old as time.

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Boy with terrier. (Ceramic)

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Day 96.

The cocked head of a Jack Russell has a hilarious almost bewitching affect on me. To the extent that I’ve entered it into google to see if perhaps others are similarly entranced. To my surprise and further amusement the yield returned to me by request was multitudinous.

The tilt of the head the angle and the way the ears sit up it just gets to me. I freaking love it!

We had a few Jack Russells growing up. I have magical memories of them all. One as a tiny pup tucked inside my dad’s jacket on the bike out in Skerries. They agreed with us Jack Russells. They understood the family ways and rolled right in giving as good as they got.

Podge was a stalwart. A bright spark too. Hearing the reports about a serial killer in Milwaukee on the news signalled it was time for his evening stroll. He’d start wagging and looking up excitedly for  his lead as he did when we called walkies to him and who were we to refuse.

Most of all I loved the experience of coming home from school each day, getting off the number thirty at the entrance to Baymount Park and seeing him fly out the gate darting  rapidly dart down to meet me his back leg out a fetching idiosyncrasy that only added to the delightful welcome.

Constraint (Soft pastel)

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Day 91.

Gregor Samsa like I click and scuttle

My north paws rubbing together in waiting

I’ll cling to the ceiling yet

That I’m certain would more normal seem than any experience I’ve had so far

hollow -hearted whole

leave well alone,

Take me I am ready.

Postcard to myself (Pencil)

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Day 82.

Sketches of Spain.

Postcards that got written only to languish on the fridge door

Awaiting what, divine intervention?

Full of best intentions until the steam runs out.

You’re missed!

You’re thought of!

Pangs of distance muted in the echo chamber message side.

More fodder for the procrastinators volumes.

Wish you were here, you get the drift

Probably not or subconscious telepathy I underestimate.

The Crypt. (Oil pastel)

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Day 81.

Within the crypt laying undisturbed for centuries is an unknown force of immeasurable magnitude

Sealed off from the outer world to avoid contamination, it undergoes a mysterious process

no trace of it exists,  at surface level all is discreet

Unknowingly waiting in dutiful living the world churns

a hollow is hollowed from beneath

quietly imperceptibly new formations and permutations evolve, dissolve in unobserved fractal dancing

to a droning hum of distant industry accompanied

We wait.

Crossing the Dodder (Oil Pastels)

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Day 65.

This is a drawing I did from a photograph I took on my way to someplace. I can’t now recall where I was headed but I know exactly where I took the photo.

Across the Dodder bridge beside Lansdowne Stadium which it will always be to me, as the road bends away I spotted these beautiful flowers growing wild behind the bridge wall.

I love the spot. I love the river, the swans, my friend the heron, the gulls and duck residents. The beautiful old stone wall and the curve of the road as it sweeps away towards Ballsbridge.

I love it because it gives me in my chest the feeling of home.

Whether cycling or sauntering the sense of belonging I get passing through is always the same. Full-bodied and real and so often I’m compelled to voice my appreciation aloud as it reinforces the buzz the way an air punch in victory can.

Its so good to be home.