Sunday, January 14, 2007

Words within Words

Occasionally I feel like a thing out of control. I feel like a thing out of control this month. In all honesty I have felt like a thing out of control since around December 7th. I realize that this is partly my own head and the rest is just merely what it is. Unending realities that create these little puddles of meaning in my own mind. What I have come to realize is that they mean nothing, and that makes me worry about myself.

I paint today. Go to the art studio and strip down in the cold space. Paint, color, brushes, the sticky smell of oil, and grease and paper from the old renovated studio that surrounds me. Sounds drift up from the tax collectors offices downstairs, click and clack in sway with me as I move around and apply color to paper. I open up my thoughts and dreams and let them spill onto the walls in front of me and try to ignore the stiffness in my fingers and nipples from the cold of the space that surrounds me.

I do not care for the cold but these things that must come out must come. Cold or no. I pick up my brushes and dip my hands in cold water and pick color upon color. My work lately is full of primary colors. Primary, primal, emotion and thought and deed and need spilled onto paper in random but not random places.

I paint a piece that is fire and breast, bone, pulsing pubis, and flash of flesh on white. She dances with me as I bring her to life and give halos to her nipples as she explodes out of the fire. She is warmer then I am and I think I might love her.

I slap down several dozen sheets of a paper on top of one another and this will become a series. Windows, doors, open places looking in. I've been bad you see, excessively naughty. I've been peaking in through windows that I'm not allowed to open, and spying at those that live inside. I enjoy the spying but it makes me feel guilty, ridden with fear, and a bit of humiliation, to look and to look in. I see smiling people and happy faces, life and love and togetherness, things that I have, things that I have wanted, things that I crave. Looking drives me to the canvass and I splash upon it what I feel, my shame, my fear, my hopes, my dreams. Windows and doors open up on the paper before me and I fill them with light and color, shadow and darkness, motion and stasis.

I open page after page, tube after tube, mix color and water and dust the flecks from my fingers and hair, nipples, chest, jeans. I move about in a sea of color and I lose myself in it. I enjoy the loss. I enjoy the desire that fills me when I contemplate losing myself. I enjoy the subtle passions that can flare as I touch all these deep things, dark things, experience, memory, motion, sound, I look at all those things and commit with fluid and make them real, or perhaps by giving them life make them even only more unreal.

I enjoy the cold stark solitude of the space in the cold winter afternoon. I play music loudly and dance violently as I spill out my desires onto thick white sheets. They will be a mess when I'm done with them. They reflect, a mirror which peaks from the page, showing me as I really am. Showing everything, lies, truths, iniquitous ideas that drive me and drive me. The paint moves onto the paper, from the tips of my brush, or the tips of my fingers, or the tips of my body. It is like music, like playing and bringing thought to life in sound, such is the fluidity of my color of being. It brings a control in some ways while still allowing me to submerse myself in cold and calculated chaos.

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