“For whatever reason, she found herself kneeling in that painted gutter. She may have fallen there, like an electrified insect after a hazardous attempt at flight or she may have been pushed from her gilded cage to find herself resting prostrate, like some impetuous, naive nymph. Regardless of her circumstance, she felt her wings crumple about her shoulders as she organised her brushes, paints, pencils and papers. Her knees, having suffered the solid, sharpness of concrete, were now blackened and sooty with a fine lacquer of oilpaint, then charcoal and a thick layer of studio dust. But oh, Dear Reader, despite the seemingly tragic drudgery of this Dicken’s-like scene, what a colourful gutter it was; all splattered-up with messy drops of cyan, umber, magenta and cobalt! Her wild heart, starving for saturated inks, watercolours, oils and acrylics found nourishment in creation. She was inspired by the non-sensical abstract inklings of the gutter’s random splotches. The gutter had taken on a persona, speaking to her with devil tongues and angel whispers. As she worked, she was delivered into ecstatic bliss by her toils and her hands formulated her mind’s desire by splashing it upon paper, canvas and digital screen. Colour, feeling, soul and expression were thrust upon a vast blankness of potential. She did not care if her Muse was present. She had not a care for critic or mystic. She had to splash her soul upon that vast, blank abyss, as if propelling that soul seed towards her destiny. Then, kneeling there and starved of sustenance, she looked up from her gutter. Alone. Hushed silence. Reverent silence. Alone, but for the sound of a wind and faint hiss of leaves. Alone. Not a poet of credible rendition or particular consideration, nor a humourist of any editorial style, she looked down at her creations and laughed to herself; one awkward, but hysterical Ophelia laugh. Hm. Alone! Greedily surveying her gutter, she placed some paper beneath her bruised knees and continued to set brushstrokes upon her page…”
Yeah OK. I looked up from my writing and artsy frenzy to realise that I had essentially lost all my customers. The Tavern might look a little shinier, but the bar-maid is a wretch of a wild-woman today.
I’m not sure if this truly bothers me or not [I think it truly does and I am just too proud and stubborn to say otherwise].
Don’t be concerned about me just yet folks. I’m balancing a entrepreneur’s dreams with the beligerence of a starving artist and writer. The critics are harsh and I’m my own-worst critic. Ooooh, a built-in, Masochistic, double-whammy [that sounds so refreshingly exciting!]. Can you hear the crack of that whip?
Anyways, I also have reason to believe that a few friendships are hingeing on the balance of some pre-conceived notions that may or may not be imagined [you know who you are and you know I CARE, care, care, care, care and have only ever wanted the “C” word – communication, not C*^t…in case you’re wondering]. Stop laughing! [smirk]. I miss people…but I guess they’ve had enough of my drip, drip, drippy and sap, sap, sappy…drips. Too bad really…the soft-squishy interior is truly the best part…
Oh, on the upside…I think I might have found Observant’s orgasm. It was lurking about on my stairwell and surprised me when it hit me smack dab on the side of the face [gently mind you, but the impact and intensity of the thing really surprised me!]. Karen, I had no idea! Woohooo! Oh well, at least I’ve found your “O” Karen! Mine’s probably lurking about somewhere in that painted gutter….