There was a time when all I could draw were mountains. They speak to me and they take me out at the knees. They’re profound and prophetic and strike somewhere deeper than deep. I would draw these mountains as great heaving peaks that cut into the sky without mercy, sharp and unforgiving. And maybe I’ve lost my edge, become soft and full of weeping, but all I see are the mountains rolling. Rolling and running and so so full of unrelenting peace. Steadfast and certain. The sharp, extreme, harsh lines of my rage full soul of childhood are no more. They’ve softened, become more dull and easier to stomach. It sounds so sad put that way but the world has lost its great intrusive intensity. And it has become all soft lines and calm yellow light. What once I thought was a cactus waiting to prick me and draw blood, is really a tree just patiently awaiting my acknowledgement. It’s really quite simple. I once thought life was the horrible monster waiting around the corner, w...
