In trying to find my so called Zentangle "style," I came across a paradigm that I find comfortable and fun. It helps motivate me to do more and I enjoy the results much more than my other Zentangle endeavors. So I gave it a name. A Tangleburst - a burst of tangles coming from one central large element. Hopefully some of you will want to see and know more. Enjoy:
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He saved my life.
Then he sent flowers.
Called.
Wrote.
Visited my hospital room.
But I can't talk to him.
I said he triggered horrific flashbacks.
I might have lied.
For my fiancé?
This is it. My first Diva challenge. Ebony and Ivory, wherein I attempt to blur the line between writing with a black pen on white paper and a white pen on black paper. Successful or not, here it is....
My entry for Mindful Creations Adventures in Monotangles 9
. I seem to have an easier time with white on black.
So named because you never draw a curved line and yet look at these curves! For Mindful Creations Adventures In Monotangles 2 I went out of the box and thus was a little late in entering.
We take a break from your regularly scheduled programming to switch from writing to drawing. Today, Mindful Creations Adventures In Monotangles 5: W2 (as the title says.
Liam wasn't surprised to see his father sitting a few rows away. The judge called his case, robbery this time, muttering faintly audibly "the goddamn apple doesn't fall far from the tree, eh?"
A spray of pine needles found umbrage on the breeze. They'd left the mother tree with no quiescence. A swing of blankness ripping wild off the bark. Gone in flapping panic. Quietly hidden.
The world goes 'round and I am its toy. Like a cat with a bell, it bats me across the room, spins me around on my ass, drops me from great heights, and then tucks me under its smelly armpit while it takes a nap.
I don't believe in destiny or fate or that there really is any sort of grand purpose to life. And yet the more forcefully I don't believe, the more life pushes back, sending cryptic messages floating endlessly in my bathroom sink until one day I notice the corked bottle and pull it from the sudsy warm water.
The rolled up note inside says it all. Intention clear as a bright winter noon. Causality unshrouded. Purpose gloriously revealed. Except the note is written in ancient Sumarian and I cannot read it. I know, somehow, that I am holding the keys to the kingdom in my hand, but they are slippery with soap and my fingers fail to grasp them. Down the drain they slide and with them my chance for enlightenment.
I say "my chance" as if there is but one. With questions so large, surely there are more chances. Because I know the answers. Somehow. Somewhere deep in my thick skull I know there is more. Perhaps I simply choose not to try. Perhaps I am scared. Or tired. Or too damaged.
Eventually the cat hits the bell hard enough and it no longer rings. The world has no use for a bell that cannot chime.
