The Mask.

The Mask.

His pale visage hangs in the night sky,

"Souls out of Erebus",

Sickly red wisps of the moors,

Dark direcloth pinned to the expanse,

Vast tendrils of white fire reach,

Mask of ivory and deceit, 

Damn those Hematite eyes.

Notes.

"Which of these looks best?" the artist asks,

"third for me, but deends on the meaning u want to give the piece", replies the wolf,

"For me a lot of art making is subconscious and such, so I'm unsure what the meaning even is.",

"which do you feel is more right",

"I'm unsure, my art also doesnt fully belong to myself, it's enmeshed with my communities.".

Dealing with someone who speaks with fleeting speech must be at least a bit annoying I imagine. My speech, by virtue of my nature, is always fleeting even when I would have it stand still and strong.

The mask I found at the bottom of a filing cabinet that lives in my closet which is overfilling with evidence of a semi-wasted childhood. I remember sitting in the sun 'utting papers. High School passings. 

"amusing playthings",

The mask was going to be glued on first to black paper and I would take it from there, find where it would land. The mask, however in my rearranging of materials fell onto an earlier unfinished project. I had dirtied watercolor pan of white which to remove the top layer and grim I used a black sheet to put idle strokes. Idle strokes are never idle. An artist even in their making of waste should be purposeful and refined. 

Red was added, madder lake deep watercolor I believe, and bright burgundy india ink, cherry red label says. Originally i was going to glue a piece about chairs above the mess. But as I said, a mask fell upon black. For the alt text poem I stole from myself and Ezra Pound, canto one quote. "Dark direcloth" I said yesterday to my near-wife. Art history piece by peace.