The Finality of Three Paintings on a Strange Yesterday, and a Fourth today, to Wrap it Up


Two possible titles: “Donald Trump has Made his Decision. Now Let Him Enforce It!”, or “Stop Using the Master’s Freakin” Tools, Fools!” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

Every few weeks I hit a low. I do not think I am bipolar any more than the next failed painter trapped inside a frozen, northern woe-box—I do believe that all inhabitants of industrialized nations suffer waves of confusion from time to time, whether or not they partake in a private economy bearing cyclical jags of elation and self-doubt. I even support and maintain a hypothesis that men have hormonal periods. Irritable Man Syndrome for some (the pick-up truck testosterone drinking cup type), or those artists like me who deal as loving butlers to the women in the household and suffer, what I believe, a hormonal derangement caused by the cross-gender dormitory effect. Science only needs to prove the theory. And to boot, last night was a full moon or close.
So the day began in heavy angst.
Propaganda radio informed me early on that Standing Rock is going to be slippery oil rock soon, or so everybody thinks. Everybody thinks that a sleazy billionaire will get his spoiled child way in the end. “Executive order” is the line, and the president and his pretend loyal “Army Core of Engineers” (the latter more than likely a euphemism for “recent high school grads with rulers”) have declared that business interests (if significantly dressed up in its moolah bag finery) trumps culture and ways of tradition always. Just what I would expect to hear from a rich pretend noble. What boils my blood is the expected response from thousands of disaffected, propagandized human automatons, who gleefully hand over unlearned and undeserved power to the wrong people. Then an unlearned debate ensues. Some rural nitwit neighbor of mine argues with an urban nitwit neighbor of mine, and the two opinions nitwittedly offered by nitwits to nitwits, constitute reality by a nation of nitwits fueled by nitwit news. And the whole manner is unnecessary to the one brave Sioux descendant who actually keeps the ancient soil in his heart and soul, and also has heard, or even read, a bit of history not told by the established outsider nitwit.
He destroys the problem.
Let the President enforce his “order”. If it’s a culture worth keeping (and I know that it is, then the culture as a nation will do what it must to protect itself. Just stop acting like slaves to nitwits, nitwits! Sabotage now!
Oh, that image didn’t win me many “likes” on social media. So friends and friends of friends, continue to protest and politicize like car payment Gandhi’s with smartphones. Even that bozo thought he did a grand thing. Freed India. To do what? Make an entire earth untouchable with threat of some nifty fisson-fusion fireworks?
Nationalism is always ugly, but nitwit nationalism kills. It kills an awful lot of people eventually. Mahatma should have known this, but the poor sap was trained as a lawyer, not a poet. Lawyers know how to say “boots on the ground” over and over, and the nitwits lap it up and sanction state-sponsored terrorism. The lawyer Gandhi, knowing his audience, dressed down for the occasion, fasted when necessary, led a nation to nationalism, and began India’s own state-sponsored terrorism—a glorious nuclear stockpile of its very own. Praise Shiva.
Onto the second painting…
 “If I am Ever Going to be a Great Living Painter, Then All the Young, Talented Ones Must Take a Fast Leap off a Tall Building” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″
A bit of whimsy to disguise a solid truth about my psyche.
I am an envious tool.
And that didn’t help my mood one bit, but it did supply enough self-deprecation juice to nourish the next, and final painting for the day,
“This Bird Has Got the Disease of Conceit” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″
So true.
You know, all I ever dreamed, since delving into a lifetime of mixing words and colors, was the ability to make a living, receiving no more pay than a dishwasher’s wages. I used to be a dishwasher, in my twenties, before getting promoted to cook and then father, and then father-husband feeler. I never imagined then, or today, that I would ever make a profit from creative work. The angst is gone now, with the moon yanking on some poor Australian’s psyche, and I am feeling better. As some of my friends have told me, and I believe it more and more each day, that when it comes to making a profit, Mr. Throop is his own worst enemy.
And then the birds visited me this morning, as reminder. Which birds?
“This is What my Soul Looks Like When the Little Birds of Profit Fly By” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22

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