I passed away from the smooth field of childhood with the light wings of dragonfly & dream of sparrow fly.
I formed the white chalky squares of Ley Ley game & paced calmly with load of color , private of dream & small marine desires , on the earth .Where there were any acquainted or not I presented whirligigs & recalling for the game under the green lotus trees.
Each color pencil in my hand ,was painting sky ,trees ,houses in curves ,high mountains ,oil pipes which were wriggle on the earth such as a snake ,Karts of vegetables ,kites & me obviously on the white screen of my mind.
How much I loved those dolls that my Mother made for me just with a scissor & piece of paper ,I ‘d loved being between them & they go around me & go on .The girl sitting here is crying. .
All nights along I spoke with the window of my room ,frogs & crickets of garden & when the morning came I went after Naz ,labdanum & verbena flowers .I loved to leaping furiously & make the sun ,wet & dandelions ,fly through the drops of water when my mother sprinkled water on the flowers & grass.
My colors are my childhood ones .the trace of childhood honesty ,appears on point of view & my canvas .There is no escape from that .I knew it was a house & there were green trees that I have hanged all my birthday kites from it’s branches & there was a tricycle waiting for me in the corner of yard .I was going around the world with that tricycle & put wheat shell ,stone & raindrops & whatever I saw in it’s white basket.
The yard was my biggest painting notebook & the piece of chalk was my most colorful pencil .I drew line ,l drew line & wrote & if I saw an ant I draw line through it’s trace ,I went after till I found it’s house & uhhh ants ,ants .They were such as small black points that I liked them to sit on my hands the same s real ladybugs.
When I came to their home I drew a tree for them & a small pit of water so they would not be tasty after al that runs .Then I was leaning against the wall & sitting & thinking ,do they need any thing more?
Every evening when my father was coming back home from his work ,he washed the yard & sent my chalky lines to the brook.
I found way to the white walls with colors , sketch in sketch ,line in line ,deep valleys full of water ,the fields with no regret ,pregnant wheat , the mountain lonely nostalgia ,curved roads ,school way ,mysterious hills . . .
The wall was so white that has free space how much I drew & I was not tired .
I was loosing my self among of those sketch , where on the earth I have stand up ? I feared .My salty teardrops were not flowing yet ,that I re knew my father’s hands among of that much fear & I ,with that small hands could only took his most little finger ,but that safe finger was pulling me to it’s familiar side ,among of those angry & imaginary valleys & from top of that mysterious hills & my tears stopped in my eyes.