everything of the day has become a fright.
Eyes closed and the forehead cools.
Iridescent shadows make memories into ghouls.
Instinct is fretting.
Christ is a daydream away.
I can't get up from the bed today.
It was the third time I worked with my Advanced Directives. Come to the second question, I was frustrated and ready to give up. By answering the same questions every year I grew a blind eye to my needs. If I had filed them with the state by now I wouldn't have this problem. “My health is up to me,” I touted leaning back into the chair. Everyone at the table was quiet. I was not looking for a reaction, but I wanted a distraction.
He was drawing with a black ink pen without thinking. With no correction marks on the page, I became jealous and quietly accused him of copying a logo for the 200th time. He said, “No. It's them.” Who that was I did not know, and his continued steady hand was alarming. “It's them. The dark ones. They make me draw like this.” That was in 1995. I forgot his face until a week ago.
The chill, the pain, the shadows at eight o'clock in the evening all plant me flat on my back in the bed. The room was at half shade and the mood was Emily Dickinson before a meal. I wanted light. I thought I did. Meanwhile, the radio hummed out Motley Crue. Trying something different in the studio meant a new station playing a new genre. Who knew hard rock would pick up so much alternative angst?
I have not given over to the thick dark impelling since before baptism. Even then, the mood spoke more of unrequited love and loneliness than Satanic notions of surrender and Christ-hate language. My dark was a noble search for truth in imagery. You may understand better in false memory. I see a cluttered studio full of smoke curling around a warm Cuervo by an open window. For some, that is how you stave off the romantic pledges and four in the morning invitations to new discoveries. For me, dark still plays out silent nights by lying still on the studio couch. It is not the eventual knock at the door, but a gentle bump in the dark that fills my arms with strain. Bearing the dark those nights leads to collapse. Fighting my ennui is relentless. Fighting the little black yields confused shame. Fighting the disassociation is a losing struggle while facing the gale. If I could only return from the canvas to regale being blown astray by a decrepit and enticing dark wind. Then, I know the new stories could begin.
My old frustrations manifest repeated blocks to quilt or write.
My darkness shakes off ashes of loss.
My damage dictates to ruminate because I overwork my hands.
My love lost bears the fruits of patience and friendship.
My hunger reaches out into the spiritual, religious, and physical.
The old dark from graduate school would swell in some intellectual approach to eroticism. In hindsight, the raw force was born from pressure covered wells of loneliness, separation, and obsession. Time has passed. I have healed a great deal. Yet, a week ago, the presence coalesced in the studio. I was 36 again and began to long for the hearty aromas of oil paints and melted beeswax. The sensuality of Matisse's studio is what bore me into bed that night. As of then, I continually crave detail and ornamentation.
Before my old darkness coiled into work and rest, I got a good lick in on a new series. I have twelve pieces done and have eighteen more to go. Time tables have me out into winter before I am finished and that does not include photography. I also finished a quilt entry from two years ago; back then, the pain in my hands kept me from finishing. I have also decided not to place the quilt in competition. As this year advances, I note a few things about maturing as an artist. I am getting slower, but more intentional. Planning is critical. Any paper trail of cultural relevance is important. Research is not just about book knowledge. Intellectual content is just as important as visceral pull. Sabbath saves a long-term career. More observations will erupt, no doubt, in the middle of the day. For now, this is enough.
As ever, stay hungry and curious.