Galactic Belly Buttons

Most people have a fuzzy understanding of the black hole.  While most of us cannot explain how a black hole functions, we know from watching Star Trek and a multitude of other sci-fi movies and programs that when an object gets too close to the black hole it will be swallowed.

I like to imagine some alternate universe on the other side of this galactic belly button.  Cotton candy clouds drift through the skies while winged unicorns play shuffleboard and fair maidens race powder blue space crafts.  But it is not the black hole’s playground that clouds my vision.  I have been thinking of the familiar side of this space phenomenon.  You know, the dark side, that object-sucking-black-vortex side.  Its ugly second cousin resides in my studio space.

Unlike the Spartan minimalistic exterior of its more mysterious cousin, the monstrous curiosity that resides in my home is characterized by a swirling cloud of artistic debris.  Like the rings of ice that surround Saturn or the clouds of  vapor that engulf Venus, art ephemera shifts and swirls, settles then billows, expands and contracts leaving 12 inches of inhabitable surface on my table, at best, and a 6 inch window on its more normal days.

This perpetual wind devil keeps stencils, ink pads, paint brushes, pencils, and carefully selected rubber stamps just out of reach.  Its undeniable gravitational pull feeds constantly on the project at hand.  Whether it’s a simple Thank You card or a more complex mixed-media canvas, I always find myself searching for the next item I need.

Should I ever go missing, tell my family not to bother with posters around town or pictures on milk cartons.  More than likely, I too have succumbed to the treacherous anomaly that surrounds my art table.