Koel onder de bomen

 

Mijn lievelingsplek is en blijft de voormalige begraafplaats de Groenesteeg, Op hete dagen is het heerlijk koel onder de bomen. En er is altijd wel wat te fotograferen.

De beuk tekenen

Het resultaat van een middag buiten tekenen. De ondergrond had ik al eerder gemaakt met pouring met vloeibare acrylverf. Ergens vind ik dit een soort kunstje maar je kunt er heerlijk als achtergrond gebruik van maken.

 

Ochtendkater

 Koffie?

 

Ochtendkaters

 

Dag 14 van de 15 daagse challenge

de opdracht is: voeg goud of zilver toe

 

Ochtendkater

 

Dag 13 van de 15 daagse challenge en paracetamol

Vandaag is de opdracht : stempel met iets dat geen stempel is. Dat werd een stripje paracetamol.

 

Ochtendkater

 

Ode to the cat en de 15 daagse challenge

Dag 12 met als opdracht in onleesbaar handschrift iets schrijven. Ik heb gekozen voor een deel van het gedicht van Pablo Neruda " Ode to the cat"

 Ode To The Cat -- Pablo Neruda

There was something wrong
with the animals:
their tails were too long, and they had
unfortunate heads.
Then they started coming together,
little by little
fitting together to make a landscape,
developing birthmarks, grace, flight.
But the cat,
only the cat
turned out finished,
and proud:
born in a state of total completion,
it sticks to itself and knows exactly what it wants. 

 Men would like to be fish or fowl,
snakes would rather have wings,
and dogs are would-be lions.
Engineers want to be poets,
flies emulate swallows,
and poets try hard to act like flies.
But the cat
wants nothing more than to be a cat,
and every cat is pure cat
from its whiskers to its tail,
from sixth sense to squirming rat,
from nighttime to its golden eyes.

 Nothing hangs together
quite like a cat:
neither flowers nor the moon
have
such consistency.
It's a thing by itself,
like the sun or a topaz,
and the elastic curve of its back,
which is both subtle and confident,
is like the curve of a sailing ship's prow.
The cat's yellow eyes
are the only
slot
for depositing the coins of night. 

 O little
emperor without a realm,
conqueror without a homeland,
diminutive parlor tiger, nuptial
sultan of heavens
roofed in erotic tiles:
when you pass
in rough weather
and poise
four nimble paws
on the ground,
sniffing,
suspicious
of all earthly things
(because everything
feels filthy
to the cat's immaculate paw),
you claim
the touch of love in the air. 

 O freelance household
beast, arrogant
vestige of night,
lazy, agile
and strange,
O fathomless cat,
secret police
of human chambers
and badge
of burnished velvet!
Surely there is nothing
enigmatic
in your manner,
maybe you aren't a mystery after all.
You're known to everyone, you belong
to the least mysterious tenant.
Everyone may believe it,
believe they're master,
owner, uncle
or companion
to a cat,
some cat's colleague,
disciple or friend. 

 But not me.
I'm not a believer.
I don't know a thing about cats.
I know everything else, including life and its archipelago,
seas and unpredictable cities,
plant life,
the pistil and its scandals,
the pluses and minuses of math.
I know the earth's volcanic protrusions
and the crocodile's unreal hide,
the fireman's unseen kindness
and the priest's blue atavism.
But cats I can't figure out.
My mind slides on their indifference.
Their eyes hold ciphers of gold.

 

Ochtendkaters

 

Op de Groenesteeg

 Nog meer moois op de Groenesteeg. De eerste vruchten van de pruimenboom zijn te zien en kater Elven ( de onbetwiste koning op de Groenesteeg) kwam mij ook heel even vriendelijke begroeten en wilde natuurlijk ook weten wat ik aan het doen was.