(c) August 8, 2009
I woke up in the morning and, as is often the case, the door to the other Planes hadn’t fully closed and through the crack I was able to be a Peeping Tom as I watched her naked beauty. I scrambled under my pillow for my notebook and pen and like an artist staring at a nude model, I started to try and capture the ebb and flow of her intangible curves and spirit onto the stillness of my canvas, an alchemist trying to transmute a raging river into a placid lake. The paintbrush God has given me is my pen and the painting that appears as my artwork comes in the form of words.
Bodies of words…
Landscapes of Words…
Abstracts of Words…
When the door fully closed and I was separated from the other world by a seemingly solid barrier, I inhaled deeply, seeing if I could capture a last whiff of her essence and transmute her fragrance into a few final words. And then she was gone…
I went to my computer and typed in the words I was gifted. Unlike some poets who belabor over a poem for months, I am mostly a Transcriber of Spirit, mindlessly dancing my fingers like a courtroom stenographer. But I am aware that my job is not just for the purpose of paying for my earthly survival needs, only to be forgotten once I leave the court by all but the most academic-minded. I am a Cowboy of Two Worlds, casting my lasso beyond the safety of survival and capturing a taste of the Wild Spirit beyond and pulling it—sometimes bucking and rearing—as it kicks over the art stand and brings its untamed beauty beyond the boundaries of my canvas to help unsettle the heavy, dense, dirt until it sparkles down like the glitter of Fairy Dust.
Unlike the taxidermist’s mountings, there is still life in my bounty. My hunting is not that of a killer, taking pleasure in snuffing out the life of another creature. I don’t use a hook to pull fish out of the ocean for you to fire and sauce and decorate in order for you to hide the taste and smell of death. I cup my hands and grab a handful of water in which to splash your face, letting the salty taste of life salivate your taste buds, washing your eyes of the despair that has made it so that all you can see is dullness. Like a drug addict, I can only think of my next fix of adrenalin rushing through my veins with the next captured beast. And often my eyes, too, have adjusted to the point where I can’t see that everything—even the darkest nights—have bright jewels sparkling among the blackness.
Sometimes I think about sticking my foot in the cracked door and prying myself through to the other side, watching the door close on the world I used to see as vibrant but now only see as dull. Perhaps I can break the hinge and the door will collapse and whenever I get dirty with darkness, I will always be able to bathe myself clean with light.
The critics say, “Just let your eyes adjust to the dark and you’ll get used to it.” I don’t want to ever let them adjust. Then I may forget altogether what my eyes have seen beyond the door and all my art will be dark and dreary.
Can’t wait for your book/books to come out!!!