Wednesday, January 4, 2012


You survive quite nicely six hundred thirty two and three quarter days for that one day when you type and the words come faster than your fingers can move and it is simply your job to keep up but you can't so you just smile and try and the words pull you into a bliss, inside an imagination you don't see as your own. It is exquisite, this space when all alone you allow and realize any control you ever tried to have before was some silly little dream of a silly little girl who never knew any better.


Grateful for silly little dreams.


Anonymous said...

The canvas had been stark white for some time. It sat on the easel with brushes and paints in place, ready, wanting to become something other than what it had been for too long. It's modest size, 2 ft by 3 ft, seemed towering and vast, like a snow filled plain devoid of shadow and form. Days into weeks into months yielded frustration for the three who felt it their station to change what is to what will be. But what will it be? Arguments ensue as all manner of subjects are contemplated. A portrait perhaps? One of the three chimes in positive affirmations for the idea while another recants the failures of the past. A landscape? The same monologue ensues. How about blue then? They agree, this is a safe and an uncomplicated choice. They go about turning white into blue. Splatters, brush strokes, finger prints and drips across the canvas form something that is not entirely what it was but something that is not wholly different. They leave with a little sense of accomplishment, close the studio door and all agree to never go back in there.

Days into weeks into months pass when finally the door swings open. In enters a bearded man with a mirror under his arm. He grabs a chair and puts it in front of the easel with the blue canvas. The mirror is positioned as to reflect the man sitting in front of the canvas. He sits. Short inventory of paints and brushes follows. An old plate used for a palette is then filled with globs of paint of various colors. He grabs his favorite brush, a medium size angled firm sable that he has always had confidence in. It begins. A portrait. No objections, no second or third guessing. He wishes he had put music on in the other room but refuses to leave the studio because who knows what might follow him back in.

Seconds into minutes into hours go by unnoticed. As he paints, optimism is in full supply. A mistake is made. He hears a voice from his childhood, "happy little accidents", he smiles and remembers the man who said it and how much he loved his voice and hair. He continues until the light from the window is no longer sufficient to work by. He flips the light switch and steps away from the canvas. He is done. What was is no longer and what is he likes. He takes it off the easel and puts it in the living room. He does not hang it and it will most likely not stay there, but it must leave for it's own safety. He returns to the studio and puts a 3ft by 4 ft blank canvas on the easel. He grabs the mirror under his arm and walks out making sure to close the door behind him.

Seconds into minutes into hours into days into weeks into months.....

I would say inspiration's time schedule may be hereditary.

Grateful for the one day.

Shea Goff said...

Yes, my brother.

This is when friends say you don't have to write here every night and that is when I say you don't have to read every day but I do have to come here every night because of a promise I made to myself.

Chester the Cheetah said it best, It's not easy being cheesy.

Something I think I've learned is that one thing always seems to lead to another if I simply allow it to do so, don't stand in it's way. And wadayano, this morning I awoke to your beautiful and wise comment for which I am so very grateful.

Thank you, Josh.