Who will stand beside you when your world falls apart?

mental studio

 

 

An artist’s existential crisis

I have found moments often where I lapse silently 

   internally, though …. 

           I have been reviewing life 

but not just my life—

    life ….

those trials we face …. and then do we grow? do we learn? do we just keep doing the same old dumb thing ….?

I don’t know ….do we promise to be better people only to sink right back into unchanged and still repeating blindly, foolishly walking the plank of self delusional doom 

for me I am just too tired of the same broken brick road that still goes no where 

What does anything mean? I have desperately find I wonder. And ask the darkness for just one answer 

Being here now as it is has bewildered me as to how ever any success could have come from the product those two made —what a mess; their mess, yes, alas but whatever that’s irrelevant when the product has to live it….and philosophy is where I’ve reached for any comfort. The mind where reason lives. Where I hide. Where the riddles blow smoke at the mirrors so they see what they think they see

But somewhere I matter and exist 

somewhere on some other plain —I know but here right now I have so often asked why such a futile impossible mission fell out of my fortune cookie —pushed out the hatch, there you go, have a good life!

How? Like, give me a row boat and some oars would be a good start…. 

But Life …. I feel as though everyone is so completely tuned out; programmed into their summa lulled form of pretending 

I don’t care then if that is what’s out here

I’m always reviewing it lately; the meaning of etc because the juxtaposition of news of the world and forms of popular entertainment lately are so removed —so living forms are existing now but only physically here; their minds are looped into their systems of whatever matrix they pick….but where the fuck is mine? always these neo moments witnessing the crops for the first time 

 

 

hauntings

Mr cranberry man has suddenly returned. I don’t know why

As well —seems they’ve all started to come back again to haunt me 

and no idea why

I can’t be that unforgettable 

what do they think they can get from me, I have to wonder ….

before the storms hit

 

Side Street Mystery/Best Sellers Sheets & pages

It had been a busy day at the bookshop; lately they had been getting quite a lot of traffic because of something someone said on TikTok (mystery bookshop owner’s deaths) and what with Halloween around the corner ….

“I say we go with it,” Sheila had said raising an arched brow at the sudden addition of shoppers that walked through the shop’s antique double doors all with hiking backpacks 

And this was the sort of town where strange stories are glorified 

So Sheila picked one store window and Faun another and they decorated gruesomely using horror fiction books the store conveniently always carried. H. P. Loveceaft, Edgar Allen Poe, Mary Shelly, Bram Stoker ….but they might have got carried away with the extra special effects to bring the books to life

“Surprise! Fake blood!” Sheila pulled out of her giant handbag 

So the bookstore was busy and so was the street with curious onlookers hanging around.

“We really have caused a commotion,” Sheila remarked, looking natural and beautiful as a trans Elvira as she peered out the shop window, “look— they’re taking a group selfie in front of the store with two of them faking they’re dead!”

“Oh that recent news story,” Faun rolled her eyes and felt fed up about it, “they just want to sensationalize to get views and will stoop at making up stories ….”

Sheila turned from the window knowing this was a touchy subject. What with Grant …. and suspicions surrounding him

****

And it was later back st her place— the Victorian lavender grey house with the now slightly less overgrown front garden and her place behind it —when she thought she heard someone at the door. It was the middle of the night and she was in bed having a disturbing dream. A knock. 

Or was it in her dream?

And heading down the stairs she went through to the kitchen to look out the kitchen door window. But no. No one there.

Yet she heard it again. A knocking. 

But it was coming from upstairs she now realized. Faun went back up the stairs back to her bedroom and now heard it again. 

She smiled. Sat on the edge of the bed and knocked back. 

She heard through the wall,

“are you awake?”

“Well now I am!” she said back through the wall 

And for whatever reason her phone alerted a message as a text came from Grant:

<<come over>>

<<Im half asleep>> she replied 

<<bring your own pillow>>

***

he didn’t bother to put the light on but he did move over on his bed for her 

“Took you long enough,” he said but he opened his blanket to let her under and into the warmth of his bed cave 

“How long have you been back?” Faun asked but then forgot the question because whatever she’d arrived in was adeptly removed and tossed onto the floor and at the same time his mouth everywhere, demanding, kissing her 

And not a whoof out of King Leopold 

1001 shades of violet; dreamcatcher

For the vaguest moment it seemed all rational thought had left the building. Or was it just the residual hangover? 

There was this feeling as though none of this was really real. 

Like it wasn’t really happening. Like those dreams where things happen out of sequence or in the locations make no sense. Suspend belief. Just go with it.

So it must be an elaborate dream— and those shots ….shots? hadn’t they done them? He looked so good standing there looking at her in that way, he looked different. Not like how he looked when he was a student …. 

Not a student ….what gave it away? The facial scruff ….

“Diandra ….” his expression was impossible to read but he moved closer to her but stopped himself and half laughed, “guess you’re not ready to get your things at the hotel?”

He could very well have been speaking Swahili for all she knew what he was talking about 

And he moved a bit closer still,

“maybe that’s because all your clothes are back there—haven’t we done this before?” Greg moved closer still until he had reached the bed where she was now sat up looking at him, just the vaguest modest awareness to lift the sheet across her already exposed nakedness 

But it’s a dream right ….? Like her losing her job and Imogene’s wedding ….

wait thst was ….that part was real …. And Greg? —he looked so good standing there looking at her in that way he always did on the playground when they’d meet sometimes by chance there and her still inebriated mind told herself: this was not really happening 

“How funny,” Diandra said in reply and reached for the edge of his shirt to pull him closer 

“What are you doing?” he said as he pretended to lose his balance and fell on top of her 

“I thought you’d never ….” she said undoing his trousers 

And it was the feel of him in her hands that awoke Diandra to the realization thst this was definitely not a dream 

Xxinzæe lė Gheillră~the Majique Realm

Introduction

Xxinzæe lė Gheillră~the Majique Realm, the works of Winifred Brook Ashbridge, had been the only source of sanity keeping her going these last several years while working at the commissioner’s estate. The long retired commissioner Alex Westmoreland, from by gone years. He was a native from the sleepy little farmland town of Henderson; not anctually a town really; but outside of other town-like places, Ingleside and Barclay, Maryland—on the border of Marydel (the border town between Maryland and Delaware marked by a gas station with a store inside and four roads intersection with a traffic light on the corner of the church where huge bucks liked to surprise drivers).

Alex Westmoreland, how best to look upon the now former employer? An ornery, scrappy man whom Daphne had had the ‘pleasure’ of serving as grounds keeper? And whatever other extra tasks the demented bigot demanded with barks and expletives…. Some biting angry adjectives sprang to her mind as those questions loomed 

“Now now,” Daphne said aloud to the dusty room, “do not speak ill of the dead.”

The estate was being donated to Alex Westmoreland’s Amish friends, which, in Daphne’s mind was the one endearing detail she could think of about her former employer. The only twist was, Alex Westmoreland had not bothered to leave her with any provisions should something have happened to him during her ‘indentured servitude’ to him. 

Alex Westmoreland had not planned on checking out. His hunting trip and the three day camp out had not been recommended by his doctor. 

Daphne turned back to her phone to study her favorite source of escape— the internet website dedicated to the magic world of W B Ashbridge, the late renowned author known for the famous literary sci/fi tales from the 1920’s and whose cult following was of a particular select few. There were sorcerers and mystical prophesies with complex riddles connected with cultural legends in the world of Xxinzæe lė Gheillră~ the magic Realm 

Even as this was really not a good use of her time, Daphne knew, instead, she should be using all her time on finding where she was going to live now that her employer had suddenly and unexpectedly met his death on his last hunting trip. Of course there were still details to take care of, her own relinquishing of paperwork and keys to the property’s new owners, rather awkward changing of hands as mediator between the Amish and the electrical transmitted information that needed to be relayed to them at times. But soon, even this small task would be defunct once everything was processed. 

Daphne had reached out to relatives asking if they knew anywhere she might stay while she looked for her next situation. While they were all encouraging, nobody had any useful resources. It was hard to think positive after several days of searches and stooping even to the National Craige’s List for every state and random searches for anything…. there was nothing that seemed lucrative never mind legit or safe so panic was starting to build for Daphne on ideas of where to go. 

This was why the escape to the magic realm had become her ‘go to’ as it helped her to forget her anxiety; every day she would spend hours signing onto the website and involving herself in a puzzle, an article or an ‘adventure maze’, it helped get her mind off her problems and focus her mind on other things. 

Admittedly, recently, she had been spending perhaps too much time on the site. Sometimes writing pages long comments on things posted because she often noticed errors in things that were posted. It’s not that she pretended or wanted to be an expert on W B Ashbridge, it was more that she wanted to make sure what was being posted was accurate about her personal role model heroine. She’d been a fan of the literature since she had first heard of the works as a teen, long after the author had lived, of course, but this did not keep the life of the person vibrantly alive in Daphne’s young thoughts growing up. 

Today she desperately needed the safety the feeling of visiting the site gave her, with its familiar maps and its familiar characters to explore and discuss or what morals came from the adventures to explore —anything to get her mind off of the misery of fruitless clicks on webpages to find a place to go and a means. 

But no!!!

      —oh dear! 

What’s happened?!?! 

When she reaches the website a terrible message comes up: WEBsite indefinitely down!!!!

“Oh what the …..” at which point Daphne stood up and stared at her phone, “no no no no no!!!!” 

It seemed the news was so upsetting she had to pace several times as this hits her. 

And logic does not guide her when she decided trying the site via a laptop hoping that it might give her a better reality. 

“NO!!!!” She shouts in horror at her laptop screen

An Amish voice from another room at this point is heard from below and shouting up asks if she’s ok

“Uhhh—just fine—just a mammoth spider ….” and sunk back into the chair she had just jumped out of

Without much thought, more automatically, she opened her emails but without bothering to look. She only stared vacantly at nothing out the window. Or rather she stared at a herd of deer peacefully eating grass without fear of being hunted.

Daphne stared at them a long while with this very thought and a vague sense of freedom 

Had she looked at her screen with the emails, she’d have seen an email from the Winifred Brook Ashbridge foundation…. asking her for help.

But she didn’t look at the screen and shut the laptop, her mind rebounding to anxiety over options for her circumstances. It would not be until later, after other emails piled up on top of that one and —hours of packing up dusty belongings of Alex Westmoreland before it would even occur to her to check her emails.

That would not happen until much later and late that night 

safe harbor

Existentialism it seems is the underlying obsession of my Celf but the actual secret it hides is the thread it hangs from for why it does strive and that is….the need for acceptance but only once actually understood for the whole of the Celf 

Symbols become the most reliable language but not the letters kind— more the archetypes created within the individual inner stage with the marked tabs from whence they germinated; the experiences they were born from 

No words ever say what is happening inside 

the very nature of an artist is individual 

I am stuck upon this thought. Within the context of the sense of the conflict of what that statement means. 

and broken fingers. and dyslexic words that are nonsense acrobatic symbols that dance in three dimensions off the screens and paper.

where to put thoughts. In the light? To be defined and misunderstood; to volunteer the self as target?

that is simply illogical and a terrible waste of silent years in search of ….purpose 

Can you imagine a camouflage artist? Can you imagine camouflage art? Like Magic Eye with the secret codes hidden ….?

I met a six foot seven man once who liked to paint miniatures and asked of my art— as one over a foot and a half smaller than him I paint huge mural sized art 

it is somewhat funny but I mean my point seems that I am demonstrating that my need for self expression seems to be a clear need to …. be seen —in a huge way but also only on my own terms. I can stand behind a six foot canvas and hide with no problem and whatever the mural shows is enough to tell the universe that I exist 

with broken fingers and dyslexic literacy a chasm and sound proof walls dull the voiced screams, choked with tears never shared and fast suppressed once recognized and categorized 

Nothing to see here, 

           but lift the veil and there ….

 where shall we put our worlds?—perhaps we just need a spot in some tucked away unassuming place we can imagine to be all we need to let the celves come out 

I want to make a magic world 

think of Middle Earth

Today I think about how it was the need of it to write of “Middle Earth” for J RR Tolkien

I dwell upon the visual landscape of his world then 

Do not mistake my silence for complacency. It is just pragmatic to not throw away energy. Throw away in such as it starts to feel like the quest for the holy grail. Or some crusaders’ lost dream. 

And here like Orlando, I step away from the maddening crowd and 

     think of Middle Earth

I think, what might have been on his mind:

       “Middle ….. somewhere safely far from here. A place not like but similar in some ways to earth. Some magical place to command. Some place to vomit out the horrors of my nightmares. Let them rage with fierce violence assuaged by some renewed hope of heroic justice and let us hope —let us hope ….together —through magic —that will deliver all back to the faith that the greater good will out for kindness not greed nor supremacy” 

With a back to World War I and facing another ….gas masks and trenches on the landscape and there germinates Orcs and Ents

ghosts

I slip into anonymous and then find it brings me to a world I never knew was there  

is it easier to find one’s voice when the audience is glad you speak in a whisper 

and listen better 

if they cannot see my face —how do I say, I’m not ok, please do not come too close to me….. don’t ask so many questions ….. don’t look at me so closely ….sometimes I wonder if I’m a zombie but here when I say I’m a freak to a faceless virtual room 

   it starts to get eerie when you wonder if the echoes are real or just the tubes in the matrix farm 

she wolf

come howl 

at me 

    don’t 

leave me lost 

come howl 

your predator call 

having said

seen but maybe 

now lost words upon  

   my

 walls 

& tell me

to you do

I 

matter

oh come howl

& say you

see

me

still

on this whirling planet 

    we spin 

and we hold on trying not to let go the grip 

as it flings us 

it flings us 

   come howl

howl at me 

and drag me back to your cave

do you see me 

changing in the distortions of life, the distortions of light, changing yet ever constant 

in the moon’s changing light

do you hear me howl ?

A rumpled head Analogy

Analogy

I have brushed my hair for the first time in years. What chaotic havoc the curls have created, it has been a war with Medusa’s snakes; they have a mind of their own, those locks. 

No I correct myself; they are coils but with individual minds like an octopus and all at war against me. 

I say—go there! I say—nay, not to the left, wave right—once twice then get the iron and guess what? It is tougher than even heat the mulatto beanfield war of flames 

After two weeks at war, on the battlefield I find once the overgrown Rosamond sleeping beauty is unearthed 

brush, brush brush grandma always used to say—one hundred strokes a night, she insisted and there was so much more even then to contend with as it reached mid thigh

bend forward, brush down and count 

stand up and there you see the rays of the sun dance like a lion’s mane around my face and static —after which I have stretched out the coils to discover it’s several inches longer than pretended to be. The liars!

and still it does not go where I say 

How is this analogy — ?

what is beneath the tangles is just as chaotic 

and you can never win an argument against it (I know, I’ve tried all my life)

 

waar ben je gebleven? Net als de ridder. woorden. Ik zou jouw magie kunnen gebruiken om me weer te laten geloven. Het pantser is te veel. Waar resoneert het?

as much as I like being on my own

this isolation is killing me

Elan/ somewhere in time

It was as if time had frozen for her; Elan was so still for fear of moving to cause anymore noise to reveal what could be amiss behind the shut market stall. What felt an eternity of time was no more than half the time it takes to run to the shoreline from there. But also time froze in her mind even as it was time was still continuing in reality. 

After awhile she moved slowly, testing her limbs as she trembled. Tested her ability to soundly move well enough to disengage what was left of the dead weight upon her. By sheer will, eyes closed, she released the weight soundlessly and forced herself to move away quick, to search for the objects she had dropped during their scuffle….then to get her mind focused on what to do next. 

The sun would not be rising for awhile. She could tell by the moon. Her plan had been to change her clothes into the disguise she had now stuffed in her travel bag that had a long strap. That had been what she had first meant to do. Until the noise had awoken Gwydion. It occurred to her that now was the time to change her clothes. 

She had repaired enough of Gwydion’s trousers to fashion herself a similar kind, and once free of her long robes and the trousers secure, she slipped on one of Gwydion’s old shirts she had recently helped herself to and had altered to fit herself and on went the black overcoat robe and having watched him enough, knew how to mock the movements of a Druid in meditational prayer.

She tested herself now. She started to walk the width of the shut up market stall. But then she tripped and she let out a cry.

When she turned she saw someone come through the drape by the stall door. It let in the moon’s light and illuminated a giant burly man carrying an ax, hair like a white horse’s mane and a thick beard.

He stared at her and took in the scene

Elan had the sense she had seen him somewhere before 

“Wat is der bard? Bist ferwûne? kom! gau! foardat jo fûn wurde! Ik bin Willem!”

Elan/intro to An Alternate Story; port of Le Havre

The Market Stall

At first Elan stood there with a kind of horror looking at Gwydion ….it was an accident. But who’d believe her?

They had a struggle. He had caught her trying to escape and things got messy. They were by all his potions. It was the middle of the night. 

She had planned it; things packed; traveling light and it was a full moon with just enough clouds for cover. Only….something unexpected happened. There were sounds coming from the harbor that were loud and carried across the market stalls and things happened fast. 

Gwydion, her Druid stepfather awoke and lit a candle illuminating her plot to escape. He caught her by her long dark woad mixed with indigo blue robe. And as they struggled, she fought with the might of desperation to be free of him; if not for herself than she told herself to fight for her mother whose fate he had doomed by her own eyes. 

It was the kick. Part caught in the robe but twice as hard of a kick which sent them both flying into the table with all the glass potions and she fell forward onto him, and they fell backward with him below her, her robe caught and forcing the doomed impact to the Druid. 

And afterward…. she stared a long time wondering what to do no longer seeing the shrouded prone shadowy outline of her nemesis 

* yes, update of Druid’s name is now to be canon to the story loge (Gwydion)

I think in my case the personality of INFJ came about as a reaction to experiences 

I think I went inward 

I don’t think I was like that at first 

Electra’s dictionary Noir/a coffee déjà vu

I suppose I must have got lost in thought staring into the vastness of the street, how fast things move— don’t they?

why must they?

Josef shocks me out of my fugue by appearing suddenly next to me. The Viking ambush again. But he holds a cup of coffee and offers it to me,

“sorry, it’s not instant, he’s dragged out the French press, but there’s honey in it, you see I remembered—and some of the almond milk I saw in there, but—no, Jörn made it for you.”

I don’t look at him right away. I feel guilty and smile and take the cup…. Folkmoot ….? I get that feeling again …. Like that time—the first time in Jörn’s kitchen; he handed me the cup and ….I felt it…. that sense of an overlay of ….lives…. Josef ….he was there —then ….that’s what ….it was that day at the barn house—I forgot I saw it then too

I shudder but manage to suppress it and sip the coffee and look up at Josef 

“We never had that conversation,” he tells me in that wise old voice which he exaggerates because he can’t resist the drama 

“Which one?” I ask him

“You have been angry at me,” he says this as if no time passed since he’d last said it

Had I forgotten? 

His eyes, when his twinkle, are not the same as Jörn’s —Josef has a more Father Christmas about his whereas Jörn’s twinkle is always —well, noir ….

“Because you pretended to like me and it was just to get me legally hitched to your son for your opera house,” I tell him this without any drama at all. I state it because this is what happened. 

I hear Jörn laugh from the coffee pot as he brings two more cups over to the table; he places one in front of Josef who has settled himself at —the head of the rectangular table. Of course. Folkmoot, I think ….

But blurt,

“Jörn, did Gerald tell you I was back?” turning to Jörn as he—presumptuously— sits beside me on the kitchen bench that parallels the full length picture window 

But now it is Josef who laughs and says,

“you think he needs a psychic to tell him you’re back when he’s an international spy?”

“I’m an ‘intelligence decipherer’ not a spy, papa —is that what you went by?” Jörn replies 

Josef laughs,

“I’m a respectable symphony conductor, that’s what it says on my tax papers….pass the socker.”

Electra’s dictionary noir/Vad är det här för sorts kaffe?

….but no I am not ready for this 

      still spinning from ….everything 

          But I don’t have the energy to fight two Vikings so, I step away and let them pass and by now even Josef knows the layout ….so we go without saying to the kitchen where I was making myself coffee 

I look at it and walk away and go to the window instead. I sit in the window seat and just stare out into the vast abyss of the city but I do hear Jörn exclaim over my coffee. I hear his indignant Swedish gasp and say,

“Vad är det här för sorts kaffe? Jag kom hit i tid, hon dricker snabbkaffe – hon har verkligen sjunkit ihop, stackars duva!”

It just sounds like a scene from Fanny and Alexander to me so I just sit there staring as I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. I put my head into the glass and close my eyes listening to Josef and Jörn bicker 

and …. just whisper to myself, “tack så mycket….”

Electra’s dictionary Noir/ let sleeping bats lay

Electra’s dictionary Noir 

It seems as though I confuse Dream with day dream because I am sure that the light flares that stain my eyes are real and alive and glowing bats 

I sit bolt upright in bed in a sudden cold sweat staring at the walls as ….the dream image ….fades and subsides ….into shadows ….shadows with wings 

What is that? I find I wonder as I follow the winged black shadows that infest my night walls —as I feel the floors vibrate 

I get up and walk to the window that overlooks the city street from the vast distance above. The window is old with the French door arches that reach up to the ceiling. There are two sets of these that are covered in heavy mauve velvet drapery; I pull these back along with the Belgium antique lace curtain sheers 

The moving lights come from the cars and trucks but what causes the bat effect? It must be something else down there, I think, and move closer to the glass to look down. 

It is not possible to see the cars, they are dots from here and the dashes are trucks 

I open the window a crack to look out. There is a small ledge; a very narrow balcony not really meant for standing, but I can open the window enough and lean out

But the air is damp chill and now so is the bedroom …. but …. 

No I do not imagine music —I hear it and it strangely catches me for a moment as I had not expected it. And not ready for it. 

I go back to the bed 

I want to hide. From games. I just want real ….

    The shadows that move like bats mix with the music and I say to myself —not ready; not now—and maybe never 

I get up and shut the window and find my silk blindfold to shut it out

****

It is some time after eight in the morning when I hear a sound I don’t recognize 

I go from the kitchen where I am making coffee to find where the sound is coming from; I’d thought it was my phone but I don’t have a tone like what this is. I go through the lounge area and down the long hall to the entrance and slowly realize the penthouse has a doorbell! I’ve never known cause for it until this moment. 

It is still going too ….it is not a classic doorbell sound, you see, this has a techy sound amplified to sound like Tibetan percussion. I knew about the peephole in the door; again, never had much need for it as no one has access to the penthouse unless it’s someone like Illya 

I carefully lean to peek through it

“Shit!” I whisper aloud and jump back —there’s a mirror by the door and I look like I just rolled out of bed, I fix my hair and straighten my shirt and jeans

“Duvan?” I hear through the door 

Josef 

I take a deep breath and open the door 

“Josef?”

He also looks slightly like he rolled out of bed but chipper and healthy despite that in his Nordic blue bathrobe—he’s holding something in his hand which now appears to be a measuring cup 

“Urm—“ he says

“What’s going on?” I ask him

He raises the cup,

“could we borrow a cup of honey?”

“You came up to the penthouse to borrow a cup of honey?”

“Elsa is making honey cakes,” he tells me

But it is an obvious lie and I try not to laugh —and then what? 

The elevator opens and —Jörn sweeps out,

“Papa! I said to leave it! Why must you always interfere? I was giving her time!”

“And you think serenading her through a soundproof floor will conjure her passion?” Josef turns to Jörn 

soul/searching….

the original meaning of the emotional term “depression” involved the disconnection; the absence of feeling; connection to; 

so the absence of any emotional connection to …. anything 

an emptiness —anomie 

    and I realize this is what I am experiencing 

           as …. I’m searching how to navigate through this terrifying chasm 

Electra’s dictionary Noir

Electra’s dictionary Noir

What I love about New York City is how you can be among a crowd and be anonymous; you can dress outrageous and no one will notice; you can walk for endless miles and forget even that those androids buzzing by are actually humans 

The penthouse has become my fortress. It seems. I hadn’t realized until the urge and the need of it compelled me to get away from all the things that are cold and unfamiliar that too lately became my life. 

It is possible to find solitude in a New York crowd. 

It seems natural to return to Ethan Rhys Jones’ last address; never mind it is partially a museum. And even that has become familiar to me; you don’t realize until you miss something what things mean to you

I like the connection to my father; I suppose this is why I return. It removes that sense of feeling lost

I do stop to see Gerald. He has been busy—back from Tibet and his (with Kaylee) twins with them. We have tea before his client comes, so I go to the Met to look at art

I spend hours there, getting lost then in thought ….

Later….

The bath is bigger than I had remembered. I keep floating up when I fill it ….there is an knack to staying wedged if it’s not too high …. it is one of those original antique ones ….I watch the city lights move across the walls and think I hear music —until I realize it is my own mind creating it 

What do I hear? What do I play …. some theme to some mystery drama perhaps 

I get out and let the water, walk naked through to the bedroom dripping and throw myself on the bed. And again watch the city lights 

I have been doing the books for the artist, having altered my title to ‘privileged character’ —instead of that notion of bimbo and doing the website too for the penthouse’s museum. It takes up most of the morning and the replies to emails takes up the afternoon. So a long walk to Gerald’s was in order, and a good excuse to be re-inspired artistically. Of course, I made sure to stop to see Edward Burn Jones’ The Lovesong, and why I got lost in thought for hours 

And late returning in the dark

I think about that painting as I lay in bed watching the lights move across the walls…. those lights that turn into bats that fly across the room….it puts me to sleep 

Bran/Beth Studio thoughts

It has occurred to me, as often I know I have said; but then I forget…. but I desperately need my walls. Whatever the form they may take; mural or physical large work …. or even a heavy knife 

I start to open the large pre-stretched canvases that are sealed in protective wrappings and for hours I stare at them. I am thinking. About so much. And I do not have words for my thoughts lately. 

I feel like a bumper car stuck in a corner at the fair. I think about this. And the still life’s or scenes in my head to paint as I can see them. And even as I see them. Watch them. My inner eye is turned elsewhere 

So I don’t even see the blank canvases anymore. 

I sit on the floor of this fresh new art studio he has built just for me. I think. And wonder

 ….

So many things form your mind. Some things you accept but others you do not. 

What am I doing here? I wonder ….to find out our ‘WhatIf’ story after? ….we closed that book so long ago

Do I really matter to him? I wonder. Actually matter

Notes of a Notebook

 

inset is my favorite Rossetti drawing, torn off a psychology book that wasn’t as good as its cover. This notebook was given to me by the office staff manager st “Pearle(Art Supplies” in East Meadow, NY), the Waterhouse to the left and my mangas have been stuck on there for years—since I took it home; and it has traveled everywhere with me, starting with NY, then MI, Oregon, MD and back to NY….and I just can’t stop staring at the stars 

*Another personal note on PRB

So upon considering why I had first been pulled under the poetry of the PreRaphaelites, the tragic loss I’d suffered, I could never fully embrace Dante Gabriel Rossetti —even as he was the driving force of the brotherhood I was disturbed by his sense of ethics. Especially as it felt to me hypocritical of what he claimed for their vision as artists, but deep down —a poet who digs up his wife’s grave to retrieve his poetry which he claimed he wrote for her….coupled with stealing William Morris’ wife around this time just is not garden variety immorality but something near a supreme sense of self importance and it comes across in his art 

while I love his use of red and his earliest drawings of Elizabeth Siddal, I find his inability to get his perspective right (Ecce Ancilla Domini to name one instance) gives me motion sickness —but his peer John Everett Millais was a most brilliant member; his work has always been among my favorites, especially ‘the Order of Release’ which I had framed and always hung everywhere I lived but got lost somewhere in the ruins I long left

Branded; howl at the moon

….and so, it is a long time that I stare at the wall. I sit down on the floor and look up 

 and I think about his words how does he do this to me? just when I think ….no, I was just dreaming…. he proves himself ….and another one of his—some kind of mind blower moments and, me, like a moth to a flame …. like a magnetic pull to him his strange innate proclivities are at the exact polar place of all mine that in the middle it is like some exact balance 

I almost fall off the earth and it seems there is …. I stare at the wall and think I think about all the paintings he has put there…. and his quiet …. silent …. way ….of reading me —memorizing my in between the lines that I only attest to as poetry but still my utmost ethically true ….but there he follows ….behind the doorways and I guess if it is worth the tedious but intended misdirections to him then I am more than glad to entertain whatever ideas he has in mind 

So I sit on the floor and think— they are all elan …. the same story…. I look at the celves and think about the fossil I found that day After awhile I get up 

with oils you are part chemist

 

You have to wait days till it dries to see how it sets. But do you see the gloss of the water? That is the difference of oil and acrylic and the scale of detail and how different oils will change this; but you have to be patient and wait and look at it

I had an art professor at school who forbid short handled paint brushes 

He made us stand several feet away from our work. And squint to obscure our eyes. 

But then, he only allowed primary color paint as we had to create every nuance of hue from this 

The point was, well, a painter is not an illustrator so the long handle is old school meant to not fall under the photographer syndrome of duplication 

it all matters

why the need of romantic tragic poets?

I never write about Pete. As it is still too horrible even now. 

I mean, I still strain to— still struggle to — find the words. but I still can’t. 

The shift that spring loaded me out — the final departure through and the trail of breadcrumbs where I trod past that elfin grot down the hallways of mirrors and rhyme …. 

It was the boy on the motor bike who got killed. No, I never say; never write if it, never speak of it, never could—not ever but he is a love story I never told anyone because it only happened the night before he died but it didn’t happen; he wanted it to but —I was with the captain of the rugby team who was an egoist. There was jealousy. They raced across the busy road instead of using the underpass meant for bikes; it was a dare ….one did not make it 

I relived that scene a million times …. I know I was on suicide watch there by the faculty as some kind of Ophelia but ….they saved me ….i walked through that doorway and never looked back 

more about La Belle*

When I’d first read the Keats poem my thoughts veered into another direction. Because I really thought—personally I really thought ….the ‘knight’ was a metaphor 

so I thought ….Keats was using this as a way to describe himself as a fallen knight not as an actual knight —but one held up by armor. As though he battled in that great Arthur code of love as an honorable knight and was pierced in the battle. some hint as to where and when I first put on the armor and how the concept arrived to me (and indication of what an impact this poem had on me and remains)

*footnote

clear other hints

‘wight’ which could suggest a kind of ghostly human

the withered sedge on the lake and the squirrels full granary— a squirrel as it prepares for winter; the harvest being done, no birds sing—they have flown for the winter; are woeful and impending deathlike references 

  ….how could I not have fallen in love with Keats by his tragic heartbreak?

to note of codes

The most important hint that his poem was speaking in poetic language is the reference to the lily—the lily on thy brow 

and then the rose 

the lily indicates the knight is still a young man —but fast wither….means dying untimely in youth 

the rose indicates in the language of poetry, the heart and love or in this case, a broken heart 

Of course ~Wordsworth —as his name would suggest, requires an entire code book 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci is a word in my dictionary

It all really began for me with this one poem—this whole secret language that evoked a doorway to a realm that I forever was a citizen of 

This one poem by Keats in my tenth grade English Literature class as I was desperately searching for meaning those words pulled me under his spell 

But then there was this …. which is my favorite painting Waterhouse’s style is often grouped with PreRaphaelite~his style and principles would be of the genre but he was not in the ‘Brotherhood’ 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917

Here is the Poem that inspired the painting 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats 1795-1821

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake, 
  And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full, 
  And the harvest's done.

I see a lilly on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a faery's child; 
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing 
  A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head, 
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love, 
  And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
  I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
  So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
  And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed 
  On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried—"La belle Dame sans merci 
  Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here 
  On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here 
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

 

today’s progress

removed other ships, then filled in the ocean to make perspective make better sense—shoreline foam by sand will be added when I start the green hues (the planned finer details mentioned will occur down the road; laying out the field)

I am the waves when I paint the water; I flow and move inside the currents. I want to be the water, and flow on and on, and move upon the waves and crash upon the shore 

that is what I feel
 when I paint this and what I feel when I look into the water —is this why I paint water so much ….i don’t know, it is more the magic of the scrying that is the actual destination 

would you like to know my thoughts ….? They are not like ordinary thoughts at all but they are much happier than the other things out there 

yes, I’ve changed this

there will be detail added to this section

 

working on the massive ocean system; dark blues

finally back in the groove, and hitting the areas I’ve ached to work on—see how much more detail I can do over with six feet of canvas—

 

working out the nuances of the pallet

sometimes this is the best way to test and document

…. now for color mixing madness, I’ll update here

 

now ready for oils; the Vampire and the Dove

 

threading created unplanned texture 

color matching

blending to hide the damage repair and prepare for covering the canvases in oil painting which was planned work on the detail and shading 

And now ready for oils

 

 

of poets and language

The first time I had ever heard of ‘the PreRaphaelites’ was in my 10th grade English Literature class. 

I remember the moment vividly. It was a morning class. And I was quite sad. A friend at school had just been killed on his motor bike and we were close

English literature had always been a balm for emotional pain for me in the past 

it was the picture of a painting in the text book we were reading from. ‘The Beguiling of Merlin’ …by Edward Burn-Jones; I was utterly compelled to the page —especially as I had just bought a novel with this exact painting on the cover. Part of why I bought the book. 

This was the class that opened my eyes to the vague sense that humans on earth have always been telling an ongoing story through the arts. Each movement. Each era 

The reason I found myself further still pulled into wanting to know more beyond their flooding of senses through aesthetic intense use of color and imagery 

What I loved was that the emphasis was not on the classical expectation of creating art. 

They were rebels. I loved that. I identified with the resentment of having my pencil removed from my fingers by my mother to correct my artistic errors; I didn’t want shadows; I wanted bold lines and my own interpretation of style that was not dependent on “realism”

It was the class that weeks earlier had introduced me to the romantic poets (the language of poetry with their codes)so by now I already loved Keats from my favorite poem. That they depict poems or works of literature in their work thrilled me to distraction