His head peeked over a dusty cloud of helium and across the frail railing of tin and chipped glass and through a mist of silence. The dawn’s curtain opened with a flair of homespun lightbulbs that flashed with intensity. Was it simply the sun? Was he still in prison? He didn’t care. The vista swept out with promise and bright dreams. The land was powdered with velvet grasses and the river swept through the canal with all the force of a great seaway. It was only a backyard. But he imagined a sweeping land of freedom and excitment and thrills and adventure and song and illuminated faces all shouting out with pleasure, “Ho, ho, ho.” An illusion. But a fine one. So he kept it.
By John Fish acrylic on Tyvek paper December 2010. 24 in by 36 in.