Artery

I've been fascinated by a beautifully executed picture for as long as I can remember, but even though I've been drawing and painting for years, my art is only mediocre at best. I was explaining to someone recently that I can describe a painting in words better than I can actually execute it on paper or canvas. I wrote this post after one such frustrating and futile attempt at transferring what was in my head onto canvas.

A few years ago in college I took a drawing class, because, while oils are my method of choice, my drawing skills are sadly lacking. At the end of the class, needless to say, I decided to stick to oils :) Today I was rummaging around and found my final portfolio that I submitted at the end of that course. So of course I took pictures. All of our drawings were done looking at models/objects.

Crossroads

Of all the pictures we took,
the ones I remember the most
are the ones we did not take,
and the ones I regret the most
are the ones we could have taken.

----

life is for the living
they say
then why are you always
so far ahead?

----

and when the time comes
to go our seperate ways,
when we say our last goodbyes,
and our paths diverge,
I- well I will take the one less traveled by
and I hope that will make all the difference.

Limbo

I've been here going on three weeks now and this is the first time I've been able to bring myself to write about it. I'm unemployed, I have no money, no friends within driving distance, no night or day life to speak of and I am completely and utterly bored and miserable.

What have I been doing? Well, I've spent the majority of my time in bed, battling against a cold that refuses to go away, trying not to look out the window at the cold that also refuses to go away. I've been out of the house exactly three times, not counting the two times my mother made me put out the trash, the most eventful thing that has happened to me is a gigantic virus attacking my computer and the near-death experience that ensued, for both me and my computer (we are both ok, for now), and the most productive thing I've done is transform my room from this to this (see below), which took me all of three days.

I watch tv shows all day. Ally McBeal makes me want to kill myself. I couldn't find the 2nd episode of Glee and nearly had a nervous breakdown. I've been putting off sending out my resume in the vain hope that my father will call, tell me there's been a mistake, that I was actually not supposed to leave home and that he's booked a flight leaving tonight. I've run out of juice and am now relying solely on wine and milk till the next grocery run. The water here tastes funny. I get up at 6 in the morning and don't leave my computer til 11 in the night, at which point I go to sleep and wake up to do it all over again.

On the plus side, my farm looks really good and I now make excellent crepes, omelettes and banana-blueberry smoothies. I am slowly losing my mind.

It's not looking good kids, it's really not looking good.

The Softest Hue

The night was a troubled one, as nights tend to be, for those with worried minds and troubled hearts. Tossing and turning they reached for each other, yet couldn't push through the walls they each put up, even in their sleep. Walls for self preservation, built brick by brick through long years of being deceived; through lies and evasion and ultimately, hopelessness.

They woke with the morning, restless limbs and furrowed brows. She reached for her art and he, his music, as those with troubles tend to do; an outlet for the aggrieved, a channel for the passion. Soft light streamed through the window as she watched, leaning back against the headboard, her sketchpad forgotten on her knee, as he played the piano, lithe fingers on yellowed keys, soft shimmering notes trembling in the air. And he began to sing.

starry starry night
paint your palette blue and gray
look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the darkness in my soul

It was her favorite song to paint to. And as McLean sang for van Gogh, so he sang for her, and as the tension eased out of her shoulders, she picked up her pencil and began to sketch.

shadows on the hills,

sketch the trees and the daffodils

The soft lines of his hair, falling into eyes so intense they could see deep within her to places she kept hidden even from herself. She smiled as she blew stray dustings of lead away from her paper; how does one translate the depth of emotion in those eyes when he sang to her, onto paper, into shades of grey?

colors changing hue

morning fields of amber grain
weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

The straight line of nose giving way to the soft curve of lips, meeting in a sharp depression in the center meant for the press of a tongue, the touch of a finger. Again she smiled, thinking of that soft, clever mouth and all the secrets it could tell, of body and soul. The subtle curves of dimpled chin, the morning shadows resting softly in that special place only she knew of.

now I understand
what you tried to say to me

If she could paint him now she would, this man, with quiet passions in his heart that echoed from his fingertips. She would paint him in soft soft pastels; warm yellow light streaming through curtains of a misty blue, the air pulsing with muted greens and rose, echoes of the life awakening outdoors. The sheets of the bed a snowy white, the paintings on the wall swirls of vibrant colour to draw the eye. And she would paint him in soft browns, the lines of his black shirt fluid as they moved with the breeze that danced through the room..

The last notes echoed in the air.

they would not listen, they're not listening still.
perhaps they never will...

I love you and I miss you so much.