Maybe I'll have a fine easel and a window with plants where I sit in a comfortable chair and mingle the colors with my skin.
Maybe I'll have a good horn to blow all of the time and some tight fine strings to strum and maybe I will have the finest of stones to string on the luxurious silk thread for exquisite necklaces and bracelets.
Maybe part of the art form has been the struggle. Maybe without the dire effort I would not have created the way I did.
To all of the painters, musicians and performers I say we are such a sorry lot of grand and beautiful people. We end up in such ridiculous places and yet we still find our craft. We still create.
Mingle the blood with the color black and you
can paint with a deep color of darkness and life.
Mingle your tears with the color blue
and the light blue comes through like a clear blue sky.
I want to tell him, “All they are doing is their job. The don't care to see you or to listen to you go on about baby and such.”
I want to be cruel.
I feel like being hateful.
Uncle Albert has perfected hateful.
He doesn't seem very satisfied.
How did I end up here said the hand to the arm?
What is my function in this life, this position?
A God like voice roars,
You are to hold a brush!
I never realized how important it was to spend my time with the paints and canvas.
To blend the colors gently.
To create the shadows and nuances.
To become one with the brush
and the paint
and the canvas.
The pervert is being reprimanded for being pervert.
He accidentally walks into my room.
“Oh oh! This is not my room! My room is down here.”
“Your god damn right.”
I have no patience for this man.
He makes my skin crawl the same way uncle Bill did and dad's buddies that worked with him at Westinghouse who used to come over and drink beer and smell strange.
Harry Hoy was a decent guy.
Had good kids and a nice wife.
His kids weren't ready for the demonic insanity of Tommy's boys.
Man we could create some havoc in a short period of time.
Dad and Harry got a red Econoline Van and started picking up trash and taking it to the dump for people. We used to have to help sometimes.
I dream of Annie Cosmic
I dream of Aardvark Diggs
I wake confused on which is a dream and which is the reality.
This world does not seem real.
We are just too violent to be real.
Annie is so perfect but that is what makes
That world unreal.
I am so lost.
As I sit here in the chair with wheels.
At least once a day I stop in the middle of the isle and I can't breath and the reality sinks in that I am in this god forsaken chair with wheels.
It's usually three in the morning.
Put on the brakes.
Push myself up to as close to standing as I can.
I can't move my feet.
My knees are slightly buckled.
I sit back down and I am at peace.
This for the now is how it will be.
This is how it is.
Don't correct me when I say I am a cripple.
At he moment, now, I am.
I have not nor will I ever give up hope that the day
will come when I will miraculously walk or that my kidneys will
start to function on their own but the now of the situation is that
I am traveling on broken wheels.
cool very groovy uber cool