Regardless, there is no sound in space. On earth we fall into cadences and feel trapped, me personally, living in a creative fantasy where nothing is tangible in the least. It is abstract and when I try to describe a painting as a garden I am asked if it is a top-view and then I shut my mouth, regretful instantly of what I'd said so loud and stupid. I see abstractions and I bother to study these things and go into depths of them, letting the pen, the brush, the fingers speak for themselves. It starts with one color, one idea and then the rest of the story spills itself out like a confessional. Today I chose blues purples and subtle turquoise. The story desires to reach climax and resolution but I'll let the ideas fester and my brain fills up with the liquid run-off from the last of the paint tube. Someday those blue and purple characters will continue frolicking through their respective mysterious lives until a nurtured death. Someday those colors will write away into a piece of fiction that narrates a universal feeling of isolation in crowds. Take a paint brush in one hand and a type writer in the other, combining the old school elements to bring about a positive change on this fine day of resilient rest. My face flushed red when the niacin rushed to it. My hands started shaking and the new canvas suddenly has a great multitude of colors and shades and shapes on it. From a place of meditation, the galaxy in between consciousness and subconsciousness, automatic. Move from one to the other like adjacent rooms in a house with no doors. The breezeway and the river bodies float down. Does it make sense, anything I say anymore?
I painted today. It felt good. It still feels good. I also thought up fresh ideas for song or story. A lonely Saturday night can help a depressed man realize his worth. All he is up against are the demons inside his own head. Thy scream and chatter ceaseless of awful things and negative consequences. Have I become agoraphobic? Suddenly that question rings out like artillery fire. I am afraid of people. Or awkward connection and of feeling cold blood beneath warm skin. Scented like apple cinnamon and with a maroon t-shirt on. You are a supermodel citizen. Dorothy. Wendy. Scarlet. The evil car. The diamond store secret shopper, always in there, as an expert in noticing the beauty in small things, the rigorous work ethic required to grind your soul down into fine powder and snort it. Inhaling those demons like the old friends who say they need cocaine in order not to black out after drinking, no matter how heavy or light. We have a tank not a light weight and his drunk ass will break everything in your apartment.
See me happy in this isolation. Like living off the land in the woods high in a cabin or the canopy connecting treehouses and rope swings and ziplines between for supplies transferring or for fun but that shit all overgrows and no one person can ever manage it all, especially considering that the upkeep will result in neglect again eventually. Let that jungle take over. Move the tent slightly daily and keep plowing ahead.
Have you been in the wilderness lately?
Where is your adventurous spirit?
Play it safe and get good at things. I am training for my life rather than living my life. This is okay. This is to optimize my life once it arrives. My eyes will be wide open. Body physically fit, oiled, shaven clean of blemish or anything unshapely. I will regard everything with curiosity and witty charm. There will be a cacophony of sound to enjoy and to love. We move like swinging chandeliers.
