I get my brushes and ink and canvas and paint at a small art store, but I'm not there nearly as much as at the gigantic craft superstores. Where I'm just another cog in the wheel with a plastic shopping basket, bleached blue under fluorescent lights, wandering past the faces of a thousand silk flowers. It ain't pretty, it ain't meant to be. There are lint balls everywhere, rolling down the aisles like tiny tumbleweed. Men trapped there with their wives or girlfriends have the same expression the newly incarcerated must have their first morning in prison. It's wonderful, though, isn't it? It's candy in a hundred different colors, all those tiny beads, all that thread and yarn, miles of ribbon, pipe cleaners, pom poms, glitter, paper, feathers. All waiting, artlessly arranged, waiting to be art, maybe, gifts, set to be knitted, stitched, glued, draped around necks, hanging from earlobes, kept in dresser drawers in velvet boxes, thrown onto a table at a garage sale, ready to be anything?
I love the beginnings of things.