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| Wow. It's been over a year since I've written on this thing. A year and four months. At this point, I'm not even sure what to write. So I'll write what's on my mind. No rhyme. No reason. Just nouns, verbs, and adjectives. Just... words. Sentence fragments. Always seem to work best for me.
A lot has been going through my head this past month. I've experienced almost every emotion available. Anger, betrayal, sadness, hurt, happiness, content, relief, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, love, disbelief, shock, emptiness...
There seems to be a cycle. They repeat. One right after another. Not necessarily in that order, but they all resurface. At some point, they all blend together. Like rich pigments of paint, generously brushed on a canvas. You take a paintbrush and swirl all the reds, oranges, blues and yellows together. You get mud. You get a dull, lifeless excuse of a color. That's when numb happens. Numb is safe. Numb is easy. Numb doesn't pigeonhole itself into one color category. Numb doesn't have to come out and deal with the full color spectrum of life.
I feel like mud.
I don't want those emotions. I didn't ask for them. I just want a clean palate. A fresh canvas.
I have to wait for the paint to dry. I have to wait. I have to wait for the layers to harden. To thicken. And that...right there....right now...that's where I'm at. I'm waiting.
How long? It depends. Every canvas is different. Mine is no exception. Ultimately, I don't even know. Time runs together and blurs more than the paint colors. But the more I check in on the process, the worse it gets. The faster I want it to dry, the longer it takes.
And so I sit. I sit and I wait.
I. Watch. Paint. Dry.
Once dry -- once it has hardened and can no longer be smeared, altered or revised, that's when I am able to step in. I can step in and peel back the layers. I can scrape them down. Pull them apart. Rip them off. Tear them down. Throw them on the floor. And scream.
I can feel again. I can be angry. I can be sad. I can be heartbroken.
But right now -- right this very minute -- the paint is still wet. No sitting allowed on the park bench. No leaning against the stair railing. I must pay attention to the signs. Use my head. Avoid wet paint.
In the meantime, I heal. I start to find new colors, new hues, new shades. But I don't slap them on my canvas. No. I prime it. I prime my canvas. I prepare it for the long haul -- for all the paint it will have to endure. I prime it.
There is no deadline. No time limit. I prime it until I'm ready. Until I'm prepared for color again. Right now, I'm happy with blank. I can do blank.
So I put down my brush. I tighten all the lids. I slide off my smock, and I walk away.
It's not my canvas to paint in the first place, I realize.
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"Parker" was his name. He was short, a little mousy, and was really (and I mean REALLY) into the medieval arts. He was the art building monitor back in the day when you had to sign in if you showed up after-hours. I came after-hours several nights a week to work on numerous projects and so we made small talk. Not much, just small talk, but it was big enough in order to remember a name with a face. He would always say, "Hi Elise, how are you?" and ask me about my various art projects. He even disclosed that he lived at The Oaks, which was where I had just moved. We discussed the horrible parking conditions and how the walk to school was worth it. He enjoyed making his chain-mail armor while holding down the fort as building monitor.
Anyhow...
I was in my second figure drawing class (the first experience wasn't too terribly scarring -- we were blessed with a semi-surfer who wasn't bad on the eyes) when he walked through the door. In a robe. A colorful robe. Not a "I think I'll protect my clothes from acrylics and oils and chalk in my painting class" robe. It was a "Hi, I'm Parker, and I'll be your model for today" robe.
They had just been over the rules of the class (which they put heavy emphasis on, since not every college class gets to see first-hand nudity live), and the most important rule was the one of model confidentiality. The model was not to speak to us, and we were not to speak to the model. Thank God. I was nervously counting down the seconds before Parker was about to disrobe. The last thing I wanted to have to do was speak. I saw this guy almost every night, and now I'd have to see him every night after that -- but with more awkward hellos at the sign-in desk.
So just when I think I could handle everything, he walked directly past my easel and said cheerfully, "Hey Elise! How are you?"
I wondered if I should honestly answer that question -- honestly. "Oh, I'm good. I'm about to see you in the buff, that's all. Good thing they put a heater in here, huh?"
I just half-smiled and said "fine." Because "fine" is the fall-back to all "how are you" answers, and works well in sticky situations.
Then class started. We whipped out our newsprint paper and started charcoaling away. And I must say, I have never drawn someone's face so accurately and with so much detail before.
Before I knew it, we were taking a break. Again, during the break, the rules were supposed to apply. Apparently today, they didn't.
Parker walked over toward our easels and said he "wanted to see our interpretations." Interpretations? Of what? There's only so many ways you can "interpret" the frank and beans.
I held my breath when he got to mine. He glanced, he nodded and smiled, and walked to the next.
To this day, I still believe he thought I wasn't generous enough.
But little does he know, I was too generous. But, in his defense, the room really was cold that day.
Oh, Parker...
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| No more talk of darkness
Forget these wide-eyed fears
I'm here,
Nothing can harm you
My words will warm and calm you
Let me be your freedom
Let daylight dry your tears
I'm here,
With you,
beside you,
To guard you and to guide you
Say you love me every winter morning
Turn my head with talk of summertime
Say you need me with you now and always
Promise me that all you say is true
That's all I ask of you
Let me be your shelter
Let me be your light
You're safe
No one will find you
Your fears are far behind you
All I want is freedom
A world with no more night
And you, always beside me
To hold me and to hide me
Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime
Let me lead you from your solitude
Say you need me with you,
Here beside you
Anywhere you go, let me go too
That's all I ask of you
Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime
Say the word and I will follow you
Share each day with me,
Each night, each morning
Say you love me (You know I do)
Love me ...
That's all I ask of you
Anywhere you go, let me go too
Love me ...
That's all I ask of you.
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| It's true. It's trite, but it's true. God really does work in mysterious ways.
Like when you've wronged someone, not purposefully, but wronged them nevertheless -- and you come home to find that they've prepared an entire dinner of chicken cordon bleu, cheese tortellini, and white wine for you while you were gone, completely out of nowhere. So you sit down, eat the perfectly cooked meal, sip the wonderful pinot grigio, all the while knowing that you don't deserve them. Then you slowly tell them everything and hope for the best.
Or like when you get a phone call from your mother telling you that your beloved dog of 13 years had to be put under and just as it seems nothing else could go wrong, you walk to your car only to find the campus police about to write you a ticket. You laugh, because you're out of every other emotion available. You sigh. And you talk your way out of a potential ticket by agreeing to move your car instantly and realizing that yes, timing is everything -- as is a kind freshman ticketer who was generous enough to let you off.
Mysterious ways. I'm not sure we would survive without it. | | |
| Well basically, it rocked. It rocked so hard, in fact, that everything on my body vibrated. I never knew nostrils could vibrate. But apparently, when a three-man group from England gets together and the bass is upped to full blast, anything is possible.
The stage lights were amazing, and five guys got escorted out for body surfing. It was loud. Crazy loud. I might have to ask you to repeat your comments, so I apologize in advance.
But seriously. Great venue. Great times. And insanely expensive drinks.
Rock on, my friends. Rock on. | | |
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