I think I shall take the gloves off now and wrap my hands in writhing snakes. I cannot get a gallery to interview me with portfolio, let alone write back a rejection of any kind. My wife says we should dig a tunnel through the snow out to the street and set a “painting of the day” between two luminaries. A sign reads, “Drop a coin into the box if you’d like to see another tomorrow”. Maybe the mailman will toss in a dime. Who knows?
This painting illustrates what the director of Any Gallery in New York City can think about after reading my query. “He is a nobody. He hasn’t $2000.00/month for a studio with smudged windows and lingering smells of rat pee. Small fish, small pond.”
Oh well, I paint in the cellar. I paint in the kitchen. I dream about taking a car to a southern beach and painting pelicans. I understand I do not make beauty; there are millions upon millions of more glorious talents respiring today. But I do make. I do create. At times the great spirit is seated inside me nodding of success that has already come. The children are wise in a weary world. The wife still keeps a little wonder left for me. And my fortunate good health frees my mind to feeling like the eager child on a new morning.
Other times I am a realist of the human world, a fool and a failure, who thinks he needs some phony wannabe in the big city to authenticate his genius. Even at this low I realize it can never work. Our lives could not be more unknown to each other if he was a calamari and I a Gila monster. The human world wants to breed like mad constant competition. On bad days it woos me. On good days I paint and care for a family.
Thinking out loud can be messy. But at least I am thinking. Good morning world. Happy Valentine’s Day.
No Time To Think by Bob Dylan
Okay, by popular demand, a Valentine poem:
The Last of the Beautiful Faithful Women
If the end is aloneness anyway
Then really all I gots left to do
Is allot my last twenty bucks
To the cause of beer chicken
And Hungarian Wine in the tub
All because it’s cheap
And still more lovely
I will do the same with my next twenty bucks
And the next and the next bit o’ cash I find
All because the penniless
Have a stronger appreciation
It’s not a matter of money
When we’re rich beyond our tamest dreams
I’ll hand over the twenty bucks gladly
With the promise to my tongue
The rights to your underarm always.
All the money matters
Is to get me from there to you
And always in the nick of time.
Only because the faithful
Have a stronger thirst for living
Do we lie together cheaply
Quenched in each other’s arms.