The Last Painting

I remember the last painting he ever made.  The colors, the memory of its creation, its absence from the walls of the family home haunt me and often come to me in fragmented thoughts and dreams that rise from the black and green pools of unconscious thought and find my waking mind like water drawn to the surface of a desert by some miraculous force.
I wonder how much of his life, how much of my life was reflected in that paint, in the colors and shapes he brought into existence.  How much of it was a blueprint for what was to come, the tea leaves of a man brought to vibrant life by his own hands, delicately choosing the brush thickness and pigments that would forever remain, at least in my thoughts.

The metal easel was set up in the corner of our large, light filled patio, my red child’s size easel was close to his…papa bear and baby side by side.  The homeowners before us had added the patio and we used it for birthday parties and occasional grilling and for some time, perhaps years, I don’t remember exactly, an art studio. 
The walls extended just to hip height, above that it was windows to the ceiling. In the right hand corner, just off from the sliding glass door which led to the formal living room, was a world of paint and chemicals in small metal canisters with thumbprints over them in red and black and mixtures of the rainbow. 
Our large table he had made of an old wooden door that had been left in the garage and it was held horizontally by two wooden legs he had also made, using crude and rough lumber.  Serving as a thick six foot table, he pushed it against the wall which faced the wooden deck. 

In the corner, to the left of the table, were the easels, directly facing the blue pool just beyond the windows. He arranged his years of collected supplies in a methodical way along the back edges of the table.
Towards the middle were old jars in a variety of shapes and sizes which held the brushes. There seemed to me every size and option, thick-handled ones of smooth wood with a thick bunch of hairs at the end, other more dainty, with thin handles and perfectly pointed tips meant for delicate line work. Others had bristles in the shape of thin fans and there were dozens of other brushes, each designed for a particular purpose. 
To the right of the jars and brushes were the chemicals; turpentine and paint thinner and half a dozen others I never bothered to learn.  Beside them were empty jars to use during cleaning and a small pile of rags meant to wipe off paint and solution, though I ruined many of his brushes by neglecting this crucial step.
Along the back left side of the table were a mountain of white tubes, each one with a strip of color at the top which promised the containment of vibrant oil paint in every shade imaginable.

I knew he had been a painter, the walls of our living room attested to that. There were several rich and moody paintings of surreal shapes and people, the subjects of which seemed barely real. There was an aesthetic about his work that seemed to favor particular colors, or particular shapes of particular colors; he loved maroon, black, green and orange and touches of white for shading.
But though I knew he had been a painter, I had never seen him paint until the day he began his last.

The canvas on the easel went through a series of changes, I watched from my seat on the couch just past the other set of double sliding glass doors which led to the informal living room as he applied the first layer of white gesso, then later above it a background of dark green and black. He used the fine edge of his palette knife to push the paint on the canvas, the effect creating simultaneously smooth strokes with slightly  thicker edges, all of which made subtle mixed textures of the green and black paint, blending them in such as way that it was hard to tell what was black and what was green, they seemed to melt into each other, just hinting of the other’s presence, an allusion to color that seemed to me full of questions and mystery and deep penetrating substance. Two colors that were full and alive, whose presence seemed to go deeper beyond the simple thickness of the canvas, deep into time and lineage and space.

For weeks, perhaps months, I cannot remember, he added more. Above the magical darkness, suspended among the undulating green and black was a single leaf.  With no tree or branch beside it, the leaf hovered in bright contrast to the rich darkness and texture of the background. 
It had a somewhat tropical feel, with a wide face and slightly wavy edges that seemed to mirror moving water in their ripples. I watched its existence manifest with layers of green, dark and light along some contours and in other areas of the leaf a hint of yellow.
He added strokes of white using both the thick and thin brushes and created definition and shading and movement on an still surface.  To me, the leaf was bright and buoyant and perfectly contrasted the deep darkness where it floated.

I thought he was done, but then several weeks later he added more. They were big and bulbous drops of red, yellow and white water which, to me, looked angry and full of vengeance.  The drops came from the upper right hand side of the canvas and crashed into the delicate veins and cellulose of the leaf in the center, pushing into it and destroying its simple existence.
If the leaf had contrasted the color and mysterious mood of the darkness behind it, then the drops were in direct conflict with the mood of the leaf. To me they seemed to vibrate with vicious violence, intent on destroying the cool elegance of the leaf with raw red power.
I was scared of what the painting had become.  The drops of red and yellow and white filled me with a sense of fear. I cannot remember what I said to him, if it was anything at all. 

The canvas never made it to our living room walls where the few survivors of his days as a painter hung. I never saw it again.
It took years, but at some point the many jars of brushes, the tubes, the table, the easel, it all went away, perhaps slowly, perhaps all in one day, I cannot remember. I do know it was the last painting he ever made. 

The Mountaintop

She had been on the mountaintop since the early afternoon the previous day. She had watched the birds and the lone hawk that swept over her in circles again and again, as though he had something specific to communicate. She searched his feathers and form for a message, letting the tenuous sparks of insight fall to her like snowflakes.
The afternoon had stretched long and wide, opening its tunnel of curiosities as the sun arched across the sky. She walked the path of the day without fear of a setting sun, and soon, as she knew would happen, the light turned golden and then slowly drifted below the long mountain range in the distance. Her vision blurred and she opened her arms wide and lay back on the firm soil of the earth, letting blue twilight spill over her like the sweet arms of death.
Blue turned to crisp black and without light, her body quickly grew cold. She kept her eyes wide, letting the blackness and flickering stars roll and tumble over her with possibilities, letting it drag her mind into depths that daylight preferred to avoid.
There were demons and they laughed and giggled. There were animals with horns and a lilting flute somewhere in the distance.
The wind moved over her and a nearby howl danced with her fears. Dark time lasted for an eternity, just the slowly arching crescent moon marked the movement of the earth and her body’s place upon it.
Her body held onto the deep worry that came from childhood and her parents and the movies she had seen. Her mind clung to visions of chains and bumpy demons and the sounds of crying. She knew she held on to the light, thinking that it alone would ease her deepest fears.
Just as she clung to the daylight, she held on to the world, to the flowers and plants and dreams that she could see. As she looked, she saw the nightmares of her youth and the cold waiting chains of years within a sphere of words she had never asked for.
The long night opened its tunnel and she walked in, letting herself be filled with its chill and rich sounds of pain and mystery. And then there was a chamber without words. Here, she was truly scared. Here, she had no body, no role, no purpose. Here, she was nothing.
Then the nothing found its way back, it found the body, the fears, the worry. It found all that it ever was. But it brought back the memory of the chamber. Her eyes were wide once again, and she knew that to live in the light, she would have to learn to voyage in the dark.
She lay on the mountaintop as morning light spilled into the world of a newborn day, and she drank in the pale pink light, letting it come into her like the semen of the sun. She opened her arms wide, letting the day bathe her in its clarity.

Big Goverment

“Big” is the word that is used.

Big is shouted through microphones and heard on car radios

b….i….g
big is the word that is used
spit out like venom
absorbed like fodder
spewed again like a dollop of sperm
big
a word with no meaning
a word that carries your red and your black and the blindness of white

the echoes have reverberated through generations
man to boy
a gap, then
man to boy again
“big government,” they whisper the words in dreams
it explodes in their hands with another release
it feels so good to say
so… fucking…. good

they shout
they cry
their pale skin grows red in the sun
take the “ B” from a tv ad
take the “I” from a politician
take the “G” from a radio show

now chant
now scream
tell the boys
tell the men
understanding is an ocean away
a drifting cloud
a moon that never rises
the word moves through your fingers like piss down a drain
you call after it
“bbiiiiiggggggg!!!”

“big govement”

the fears are already here.
They are already chained
Can you not see the blood?
My life
If I swallow what I want to, it is in my life
And you are here, in it
If I fuck the way I want, they are already here
You say it’s wrong
If I strangle my lover, they come
They take me away
Another interference
They are here
Big is here

Big….massive….government….involvement…..everyday….lives

It is here
Warped and huge
It is here
It has been here
All along.

Flight 228

The seat below me is soft and blue. I look out the tiny rectangular window and see nothing but blackness and occasional spurts of lighting.

The seat below me is gray, the windshield before me is covered in smashed bugs that speckle the vision of evening traffic.

We rock violently, trashing through the night sky. This is not turbulence, and as much as I would like to hear the reassuring voice of the captain, assuring us of our altitude and safety, this will not be that type of flight.

My eyes water. I am in a sea of cars, their headlights blink on and off in a Morse code of red.

We jerk violently, like a toy in the hands of a giant. The lights have gone off and the aisle is illuminated in an orange glow of polka dots. The air masks drop, I reach to them like a machine clinging for life. Air. I need air. It is the scene from a nightmare. The terror of birth, the knowledge that soon I will be taken, taken back into the world of darkness. This is the sheer pain, the raw fact of inevitable death. This is happening. And it’s happening to me.

Tears begin to flow. The freeway surrounding me is a slow game of movement. But I am in the sky. I am crashing towards my death. I am sucking air. I am clenched with fear. The ocean is below, a black vastness that will soon embrace my cold flesh.

There are screams and they are loud, but at the same time, running in parallel, is the muted stillness of a moving grave. I move as though it as if wading through molasses, each second stretching further than I ever thought possible. An electric cord of lightning blasts through the sky like a careful dancer. The craft shakes with the force of a demon. All truths exist at this moment.

Sadness will not let go. Fear of the inevitable moves with my blood. My mouth is dry.

A terrible roar, the screech of metal ripping, what have we lost? There is crying, but there is silence, the silence of an approaching death. The plane tips, we flap like a feather, this multi-ton hunk of metal is dropping like a stone in a pond. Has my heart stopped? I am nearly dead with fear.

Their fear is mine.

It is the sound of dying metal, there will be no landing, not on hard earth. Open up, we are coming.
The wing hangs by a tendril. Every prayer I have ever known runs through my mind, words flip through me like a crazed typewriter.

There is nothing that can help us now.

I will never see him again, his eyes flash in my mind, the space we shared in the airport not too long ago. Just moments before the flight. We stared, my lips quivering, my hands still playing with the crinkled hair from his beard.

A tear begins to form, the pain of knowing this is the end.

I held and held, feeling his truth. Sink, he said. Let it wash over you like a warm wave. You will never see me again. Goodbye, I will see you on the other side, I will call for you with my bell and my candle. I will call for you. Listen for me, come to my words, let me be a guide. Follow me.

I reach deep within me and I pull out another breath.

The Contradiction

The small little bug landed on my shoulder. It was red and black and looked like something from a nightmare that has yet to get to the darkest pit, yet to leave me tumbling through the air, tasting death as it comes, yet to shock me into wakefulness. It was the news, the stories of rape in the Congo and the dark-as-night-skinned women who adorn their bodies in the colors of rainbows, yet know, with full body awareness, of the brutalizers. It was the pack of seven men that took her down, that ripped into her after taking the breath from her husband, and as bad as it sounds, a part of it, even after several hours and countless other thoughts, it still filled me with the flush of sexual excitement. I had moved to turn down the radio, my brain had recognized her story as something bad, something I would never wish upon myself or another, yet the thought of it, the fantasy, the show of power and domination and the forced submission and the tears and the sexual release the men must have felt by pushing themselves into a woman who had no more tears left, it was that which started the ticking pulse and the search for other images just as brutal and those two realities, the inability to even hear her full story and the vibrational fantasy it invariably created, those two truths despised each other. They were magnets of the same charge. They were shame. They were contradiction.
Modern American women don’t think like that, they don’t like that, they don’t want that, they condemn that…and I do, yet I don’t, yet I do, but I don’t.
And the two colored moths flew around my shoulders, teasing the bare white of my skin with their buzzing and fanatical wing beating. And I wouldn’t want it to happen, but I like it. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, but I want to see it. To be held down, forced open, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much I want to run away. And when it does happen, the small, more harmless variety, I feel like I could follow him to the ends of the earth. I can see myself, wearing torn white rags, stepping across the red horizon as the even redder planets loom like hot air balloons just a short arms reach away. I can feel each step over rough edged gravel and those shiny swords that wait in the distance. I have not reached them yet, but I have seen their cousins in the smaller ponds and they have cut me deep, very deep, and somehow, with bloody feet and salty cheeks, I made it past them and over the barren hillsides. And at the ends of the earth, perhaps only an arms reach away, but necessitating a lifetime of travel, he waits in the crystal castle with a goblet full of foul tasting life and eyes that could warm the night sky if given a chance. The wings flap like a soft lullaby and their colors have become my coat of arms.

Strange Birds

Little yellow feathers tickle her neck like the dark whiskers of her favorite man. The birds have just passed, just an inch away from her creamy white face. She is colored by their streaks of movement, the radiance bursting in the form of softness and quill. They came from the mountaintop, a series of strange birds.
Strange to her.
She clung to her whiskered man like a warm stone in a torrential river of dark fears. They flew like a beaked battalion, large and oversized, small and red. Striped and iridescent. Despite the sweat that rippled down her soft contours, despite her stomach-bound butterflies and startled heart, the birds flew past. They delighted her eyes with a rainbowed spectacle of moving fury. The descent from the mountaintop moved like a flash flood of liquid paintings, Matisse, Picasso, Vincent descended in masse.
With their flowing pencils and paints, with their minds and inspiring speckled blood. Their drops spilled and congealed, creating vast empires of dancing swirls and laughing dancers. She still clung, yet not with fear, not with the desperation of a woman dropping from a cliff. She clung with all the force of love that moved like an endless tunnel of delight through the rhythm of time. She clung with wet palms that sparkled even in the night sky. Within the darkness of no moon, she found her way home. Found her way into the arms of the whiskered man.
The sand beneath her seemed to drift, it moved like red waves, the ones she remembered from a childhood of tea parties and silent mixtures. Her cups were always full of red earth, she served herself, her only guest, and swallowed each grain individually. One by one, they made the journey from her cup, to her mouth, down the tight confines of her throat. She swallowed all night, thinking of nothing, feeling only one world after the other enter her.
She was full, carrying the knowledge of the unborn, the undead, the missing words. She held them all. She was bound, she had taken them in, becoming them, becoming all in the process. Red like the light of the October moon. Red like a desire that burns from her dark center . And there was no one else. The feathers bloomed from her ears like twigs from a demented tree. Red, gold, green, shimmering like satin. Glowing like the collection of stars clustered around the nearest planet. Satin trim and soft. Long and stripped.
She saw her reflection in the silver pond.

On The Brink

It is just a string that keeps her from going insane. An invisible thread that ties her to the one more firmly planted. The earth is ripe only when sleep drifts from the eyes of the weary, and she is not yet among those counted. There is concrete and tar, little else. To move in the warm contours of soil and brother sand that exist in brief dreams of almost forgotten rooms. Woolen rugs and tapered yellow candles. Tent flags? Crushed slivery leaves and stone bowls of water. This is concrete, hard and unmoving.
She stands at the corner, undecided about the direction, south, north, east…do they lead to the same place? The streets ahead are gray, slate and drab and littered with old sandwich wrappers and discarded paper cups. The mottoes drift away on the wind, forgotten like each burp and French fry. The gutters are a collage, a temporary museum to the unwitting Mexican artist. The dark roads are long, each one of them marked by sign postings and shiny buildings that reach to the heavens in false praise. Clouds disperse in the wake of their unmoving weight. They move slowly, without care, without emotion. Their form merely shifting for the oncoming force.
A sharp edge plays with the tension in her back. It applies the mute song of a 90 degree angle, talks the only way it can. She gazes in the four directions. A bus baring a thousand Asian immigrants passes, rustling her hair. Taxi cabs, one after the other pass. They are but passing colors and shapes. She sees them as unsentimental players and nothing more. They move and go on command, the drivers, their cars, the lights and roads and all those upon them. She swims with them, a sparkling fish in their school. She reacts with a grimace to the woman on a cell phone, presents a smile to the ranchero. Acting on impulses, she drifts like a kite caught in the clutches of a hurricane.
She walks the edge between realization and death. An elongated honking horn, the stretching music of a car in flight. It winds, finds itself in the coils of her intensities, pulsing with the cold movement of mechanical life. You are here, she hears in the distance. The cries of bats and ocean waves creep in, the screech of old brakes and country songs curl together like strands of DNA. Distortion like no other she has heard. Teetering, she allows the weight of the building to hold her.

Avoidance

Come and bring all your ghostly fears.
Bring them to my feet, for my shrine awaits its sacrifices.
I want them bloody. The pulsing life, once stolen from the sleeping spills upon the golden floor, staining my torn feet with circles of raw form.
With that sacrifice comes this text. These words, pulled forth from my being like stubborn rotten teeth with long tangled roots. The holes go deep and the novocaine has long worn off. There are a dozen things I would rather do…make some lunch, work on a photo, do some internet research…easy things, tasks that come without so much effort, and therefore, are slightly more enjoyable to this temperamental machine. This pleasure whore, willing to sacrifice any gains, any person or space for one moment of pleasure.
This is the witch I face. Her eyes sparkle with the stolen breath of dragons. Their shape ebbs with each subtle gesture, their layered color whispers with familiarity, yet always remain strangely distant.
She aims to trick. She coos that the day is long. Her ventriloquist’s voice reminds me relentlessly that easy tasks can be done first. Lunch is important, and she is hungry. Or perhaps we should rest, or read a book.
But I know, at some point today, I must write. As much as I would like to forget, to hide behind a thick wall of lies that promises pleasure and rest, I cannot. Saving my most dreaded task until the end of the day throws a black stain upon the entire day’s labor. The fear awaits my attention, the dreaded task grows strong with each avoided glimpse. Never fully gone, never completely hidden.
Like black rain clouds on the horizon, their persistent thunder is a constant distraction, and because of this, my attention can never focus on anything else. The simple tasks, the "easier" tasks are not more enjoyable. They are only a piece of the continuing lie. Every action is slightly tainted, a bit more heavy and labored.
Like a persistent tick upon a monkey, the habit of procrastination sucks me of vital blood. By avoiding that which is difficult, it stays within, sitting in my heart like a restless raven, draining me of attention and raw energy with each passing hour.
There is one thing to do. I step to the edge of the cliff. The valley below is black, darker than any I have seen, but this is the heart of my fear. I plunge, head first, directly into the center of this chasm. It is This I avoid, and into This I must fall.
The dark pool of energy opens. I begin shifting words. Fingers begin to type, moving faster, responding to each new thought as it springs forth, faster and faster. It hurts, my neck twinges, my fingers ache. My hands cannot keep up with the sentences that emerge from somewhere inside. I exchange a sentence for a thought. A phrase takes shape.

It is in this space that I may Work. This strangely foreign land that does not grant favors. Each step must be earned. The very road asks for homage, the surrounding trees require my attention. This is darkness that must chosen, to avoid this is to avoid the possibility of change, of Transformation. Do not avoid the spiders, do not jump over the puddles. They are the path, they are its keepers, they are the guides.

Drowning

The desire for human safety holds tightly to its delusion, struggling to look away from the edges of darkness that beg to steal us away.

Death is the end result of this body.

"Keep us safe!" they scream.
A child has drowned in a backyard pool, one of the 260 under the age of five to die in the same manner. "Keep us safe!" they scream.
The willful 4 year old managed to climb over his child-escape door gate and then over the 4 ft high fence surrounding the pool. Despite the gate, intended to prevent accidental drowning, the parents of the boy hope for new legislation; a bill that would require the installation of pool alarms. Safety advocates have accused the pool industry of downplaying hazards and resisting regulation to avoid worrying consumers.
"Every single death is preventable," said Alan Korn, the public policy director of Safe Kids Worldwide, a nonprofit group
based in Washington.When has death been preventable? Squeezing every last breath out of the elderly with medications and technology…safety features in every car and gadget, we are a country desperately seeking safety…keep us alive, we scream. Politicians oblige, milking our fears. They keep writing and passing laws, but we just can’t stop dying.
"Safety advocates recommend a variety of measures besides fences and alarms: weight-bearing pool covers, self-closing and self-latching gates, anti-entanglement and drain-release devices for hot tubs, rescue equipment and training, swimming lessons and Coast Guard-approved life preservers."And when we have covered ourselves in knee pads, wrist guards, helmets, and all the latest technology has to offer, we will still not be safe.
You are not safe…death will claim your body, pain tempts to take you under. There will never be enough legislation to prevent our humbling. All the organizations, systems, strategies, the seeming order and structure of it all…nothing is safe; and perhaps if you cannot see that now, you will understand it in the seconds after you have taken your last breath.

Reason and Fear

We work with the machine. We work with care and diligence to blend all aspects of the machine: the emotional center, the intuition, the intellectual center. All aspects have their relevance and function, lending themselves well to each other, and when all is working properly, making each aspect more finely tuned and perceptive…ripe and able to Awaken.
All our aspects can work for us. Our intellectual center has its purpose, although, like anything, it should not be allowed to take over.
In his recent book, The Assault on Reason, by Al Gore, argues the opposite: That most Americans have allowed their intellectual center to be muted and numbed…ignoring reason and logic and replacing it with blind faith. Faith in leaders and authority. Faith…trust in the military, in the president, basically, anybody but ourselves.
Gore says:
"The point of this book is that our nation is so shockingly vulnerable to such crass manipulation. Whether it’s New Orleans or Iraq or the climate crisis. And it's happening over and over again – the censorship of scientific warnings about the climate crisis; the warrantless mass eavesdropping on American citizens; the overturning of a prohibition against; and the fact that there is so little protest or outcry points to the much deeper problem not of just the culpability of those in the White House at the present moment, but at the fact that we are so vulnerable to these mistakes and that we allow them to occur with hardly any impressive outcry of resistance or protest."
The "why" of this interval is complex, but the first example is our culture of fear.
"Our systematic exposure to fear and other arousal stimuli on television can be exploited by the clever public relations specialist, advertiser, or politician."
Most Americans watch more than two hours of TV a day. Subjected to the latest news of murders, accidental deaths, terrorists, suicide bombers…a world out of control and we want safety. We have given up many rights for this image of safety…even our ability to reason has gone out the window. We are more likely to be struck by lighting than be killed by a terrorist attack, yet, despite the logic, in recent years, Americans have hardly peeped while right after right has been stripped away in the name of safety. The intellectual center has given way to the primal desire for survival, the most basic machine tendencies are now in control. The lizard brain is in command of the ship.