Then The Soldiers Came, oil, 9" x 12" or there about.
Ellis and I are feeling down. I guess that's why this painting from my files spoke to me. The buildings are a wreck and so am I. Recovery really is going to be six, long, colorless weeks like the doc said. I can't help thinking Ellis should have married a younger babe. Then he'd be dead by the time she suffered the ravages of a life lived carefree of consequences--instead of being in the kitchen preparing her breakfast.
(Ellis didn't like that paragraph. He wanted you to know. The fact that I wrote it, shows the guilt I am feeling for being a burden. Voicing that, I plan to shake it off by stepping up my walks. I get short of breath easily. That has to be dealt with more aggressively than blowing the Airlife. I made a resolution; I hope it doesn't kill me).
And I painted this gestural painting one Sunday afternoon a few years ago. My reference was a Time magazine photo of war torn streets in I-forget-which-country-was-being-brutalized-by-which-country at that time. The destruction of the houses made me cry for the folks who lived above those shops, cry for the total destruction of their homes, their lives, everything in ruins. And it goes on as refugees flee ISIS. What is the matter with us? It's time for the World Federation to put those Klingons in their graves.