The canvas calls me by name and its time to try again. “Hello” I say. “You know we got to stop meeting like this, it’s almost always bad.”
“You’re supposed to be my friend but sometimes I wonder”. Monument to pain? Instigator? Teaser? Save to the wounds?
I turn on the music and the cries climb inside my head, but, this evening, again it changes nothing, it is the silence. It speaks the loudest, but
does it matter? For the mystic tale can not be understood anyway. The colors...shine brightly like the darkest clouds, but the people, they only
see rainbows and the morning dew. Once again leaving clues that read like billboards. Madison Avenue could do no better.
This cold and windy night, rain pounding outside my studio. On stretched canvas, virgin white yes, but its not the first time and were not making
love tonight. Candle light surgery. I am the doctor and the patient, scalpel incision upon myself and smearing me… on for humanity, or the bat.
He seams to be paying attention tonight…
No matter. For as long as I do, I fear it may forever be the same answer. Only a few will understand, see it, feel it, and make the connection.
Why do I try so hard, to show, the power? Writing the book in a language no one knows. Painting the picture that no one can really see.
Photographing ghosts. I might as well paint the black of night till my last days. Yes I know i've threatened that before but someday I might just
do it. It would be the ultimate statement. It’s too late for me. It is not my fate but I have a vision that someday an artist will be born to do just
that and he will be the brave one, the one to tell the truth, the greatest artist who ever lived. But they still wouldn't get it and I am not so brave, I
need your affection and love, I am week.
I don’t understand the need. Why am I compelled so? But look at the trees in the forest, listen to them. They like it better when some ones
there when they fall, and yes that’s them crying that you hear, hmmm... well trust me. Yes it’s better to cry out loud.
On the wall September climbs, eight legs and a smile, lipstick applied, I’m sure of it. Like always, Smeared. No less, I can’t taste it any more.
The telepathic mime.
Of traveled time.
Came to life,
For a while.
Eyes of brown
And oh that smile.
In my vision
In that touch.
Talk was cheap
But cost too much.
This grave of skin,
Holds me now
Till he shows me how
To un earth my self
And breathe fresh air
To feel the love
Behind her stare
A scent to drink and savor
to take flight with and dream off
to bathe in its heaven
in my side
As I lay bleeding from
The frailty of mankind
Alas, tired of it all, I walk out on to the catwalk. The rain has stopped. Up in the sky I see nothing but darkness. Pausing I look down into a little
puddle of rain. My head floating gently from the wine. The glare from the studio light penetrates and I see my reflection, distorted, green like the
prism, blue rainbow and purple haze. Like my canvas paintings, the rippled puddle a mirror and a message, the truer vision as nature and god
What if they really can see it? What if they really can feel it? Yes maybe that is it. Maybe they have been right all along, they can see, they, can,
see….. is it I who have been blind. That’s the way life is. That is art. Art is that. No better than the puddle of rain really. And yes, black is
beautiful in is own sad way.
Someone once said “It is better to have love and lost then never to have loved at all”. The man who has never loved is a dead man, pitiful
robot. I am alive. I am alive and the black rock by the fountains edge is as the Mona Lisa.
Cascading down moonbeams through misty clouds I feel kisses, one on each cheek and then gone. Two angels, old friends stopping by to
share their unconditional love. Reminding me of their visions long ago. I blow a couple of kisses to the wind, and get ready to head home. The
canvas whispers a soft farewell and thanks me. My incisions sewn. The healing begins.
I will paint the colors of the rainbow till my dying day. Yes, my truer vision as nature and god intended. They were right all along. It was they that
|Copyright © 2006 David Jon Foster
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