My journey into the dark started with colors. The dark I speak of is my mind. Painter has this quality to it that lets you make what ever you can dream up; so you have to challenge your self to look so deep in yourself that you hit bottom every time. I build pathways to the sea bed back to the surface and then plant seeds for new concepts. It leaves me swollen and scared in a good way. Plant a tree and feed a forest. The roots are strong and powerful but not meant to last longer then a few lifetimes of paintings. Maybe a few hundred paintings and then a new tree has to be planted on top of it. Madness, beautiful madness.
Friends of friends of friends of lovers. The empty is the moment the bag hits the floor and the door closes to the night. Hard pressed to see more than the seconds of running, smiling and the little deaths. Teens on Halloween, the parties, the drugs, the troubles and the makeup on banisters. Midsize red and white finger paint on lips and clothings.
Her smirk is the open books that say everything and then nothing all at once. Her costume is the run on sentence of the mind’s eye.
Mars the phenomenal.
Little of me remembers that years smells but the touch of the cold on the tops of my arms is an unshakeable souls shiver. The parts that make all I run into mentally a cliff edge.
Deep and true and fearful. The honest parts of me know the outcome is no bigger than a grain of sand to the world but I am a grain of sand so it is my world. In search of my next masterpiece and I do not know anything to begin and build a new universe with.
Wishing wells of all the parts that made me grow into the creative heartbeat. Cocoa butter for the tips and tops of feet and elbows to pull me back to the first time I ever lifted a brush as a youth. Whine and beer to remind my self that I can be limitless as I slow and speed up time; traveling on and bending space with colors.
Where ever I go the art is playing in the background; in the corners of my eyes. Forever a trickster to steal me from all other tasks. Making and making and making.
a million dots. I want to get a tattoo gun so I can make one million dots on a face in every painting. I want universes around eyes. To work huge is the occupation of the galaxy of details. No one hand makes without deep lacunas of agony in your bones. The silly bits are that the pain is a trophy of all the beauty you give to the art. To be a doner of such bloom is an honor and a gift of pure love.