Not such a peaceful start to the week, chattering dreams, condensation on the glass, but maybe some beauty can be found. I trace my finger gently around the window pane, somewhere below the squeaking point, sways of idle swirls emerging from my heat. When the balance of clarity and mist is met, I step back and observe the view through my protective design, It may not be art but I wish I could hold this moment in time, and say I made my temporary mark, but no such things exists in this space, and so I watch my design fading back into misty oblivion. No-one is here to see my scrawls, is there anyone out there anymore? Any more blurred faces on pinched frames pruning their roses and feigning indifference to the thought I cared? Repeatedly singed fingertips remind of my affliction, and so with sooted digits I systematically smeared all the faces, all the eyes dislocated from their sockets and spread around their sorry bodies. I had lost my spectators, and individuality was something reserved for myself and those able to show their fearless expression through even the murk of this clouded existence. I suppose somewhere behind the blurs there must still be a whole other world, but I have tasted its bitter fruit, and was beaten for spitting sour seeds to make a picture in my head. A matter of taste. Artless. Soul bleached yellow and mildewed beyond redemption, so I’m told, but how can small fragments of beauty spill from even such a thing as me? All this flocculant meditation before so much coffee has passed my lips.
I guess I took it pretty hard when something or some one who tickled my slumbering thoughts and graced poetic intentions bit hard when I was only playing tough to protect them. If only I didn’t care, but once someone pushes through my smokey screen, that’s it. I care too much. It’s too late by the time I finally focus on their features. I trusted them enough to let them see me. Too stupid to suspect a thief or spy in my house. I need them to hurt me enough that I can smudge their image from my castle gallery, but some spirits just won’t put their teeth in, leaving me to wonder if they even meant it. Well? Did she? My precious circle is closing in, the fog thickens and I have seen in dreams the storm circling me until only I remain in the eye right until it blinks out. If I could paint, I would capture the stormy smudged perimeter of my tornado the dust of some thousand strange faces, as the instant the lashes sweep me out. I’m staring into all those eyes, one behind the other, wondering what my protection has cost me.
“I swore that I
Could survive any storm”~tori amos, snow cherries from France