had i taken my art seriously, i would have been a different person. i would have made everything from scratch: from scabs and paper, empty cans; empty windows, empty lives and baskets full of nothing but dew and pegs.
i’d hang it all right there – on the lamppost straining under the weight of its shaky light. an archeologist of tomorrow, or an architect of the past;- i’d dig up glass, giddy with youth and life and the rush of blood pounding through the vena cava and into the heart. i’d pour water from a hose straight into the vase and leave the vase like that, without flowers, only the water, to reflect the brilliant shine of light.
at times i think about that, charting my life as if i painted for a living, as if i put my life on canvas in short brittle lines. at others, i get this image, clear as day, of apples bobbing on the surface of the water, rippling out. and then i think of god.
where is he now; and does he really listen? presumptious questions often come in pairs, i find.
sometimes i lay and listen to the silence and i can almost feel it, feel him, her, them: this overpowering presence of beauty, knowledge, loss, virility and life.
but almost. only almost.
and then it’s gone, as if it were never there.
i try to live by the rules. the fornication one, that one, it almost gets me. and there it is again: almost.
isn’t the world full of them, like butterflies, circling in pallid curves across the faltering sky? think long and hard and you start to hear them: a sweet low buzzing hum. and if i were an artist, i’d paint it as a sun.