Straight Lines For Nia is there something like a straight line? is there something like dead weight? out there is much fog, dust, screechy sound of saws they clog the brain, nose, ears, they seem so unavoidable the lemons are ripe, acorns keep falling, the ants keep crawling they could be roasted in the pan and sprinkled on toast not the lemons and acorns, no, the ants as condiment after I tell this story she keeps cleaning up her crumbs a possibility… in silence we paint, could you help me draw a straight line? I don’t know how to do them, I say, and really there might be no straight lines, try it, perfect lines may not be necessary, you make a line, it becomes your line to follow, to envision your possibilities… she tries this out, takes a liking to her lines freely meandering painting with her middle finger, burnt sienna, crimson red magnificent purple, she’d never heard that lines could be free not imprisoned, the moment we travel new possibilities...