Rumble, ramble, mumble, fumble & bungle

Every artist needs an inspiration. Something that will send a surge of adrenalin surging through his veins. Something that will rouse him to scale greater heights. In search of the secret. The secret that binds the Universe together. That thirst. To find something new in everything. To hear the roar of the ocean in a conch held to the ear. To see tiny, vibrant rainbows in every drop of the April shower. To smell the wet earth beneath foot just after the cold November downpour. To feel the bracing sea breeze blowing over a sand dune. To taste the sweetness of a fresh mountain spring. That thirst which leads us to find something new. Hitherto, unknown. Inside ourselves. We are all artists. All the time. I am an artist. And the world is my showcase (Some dead English guy is turning in his grave). The world around us. Surrounding us. Encompassing us. Is our repertoire. What's that you say? The doggie poo outside my garden fence isn't art? Maybe it isn't (It could be a fart). Maybe it is. After all, art, like beauty, lies in the eye of the beholder. Definitely. The doggie poo has to be a liar in order to convince the beholder that it is a thing of beauty! Everything we do. Including our daily chores. Is a form of art. Some artists develop mundane tasks such as hanging out wet clothes for drying into an art form. Each and every arm movement - right from picking up a wet pair of trousers from the bucket to squeezing it of excess water to flicking it to remove the folds to tossing it onto the clothesline to pegging it down with clips before the breeze picks it up and twirls it aside - is a carefully choreographed effort. Each, a testimonial to the skill and experience of the performer. Heck, if P.T. Barnum had read this, the Ringling Bros. Circus would have had a troupe of washerwomen enthralling the audience instead of those tightrope walkers or the lion tamer. "Waitaminute! What's the point of this post?", you may ask. Well, truth be told, I have nothing in particular to say. Its just that rumbling tummy, rambling brain, mumbling mouth, fumbling fingers and bungling idiot don't go well together. Alas! What an artist perishes in me!