Friday, August 14, 2015
"I have a canvas of cypresses with some ears of wheat, some poppies, a blue sky like a piece of Scotch plaid; the former painted with a thick impasto … and the wheat field in the sun, which represents the extreme heat, very thick too." - Vincent Van Gohh (written to his brother from the asylum Saint Remey, 1898)
The moment is pressed time, the heavy shrill, shock of it when fingers first bend and grasp, an audacious charge, a surfacing up and out to a breathing knowing existence akin to the dizziness after a childhood spinning, blindfolded in the center of a bare living room.
I thought maybe it was natural, me --some form of me --jolted into awareness. Now I suspect it is alien, a presence of foreign, indecipherable substance, this entity that has gripped me, graced me,propelled me into consciousness, whispering a long, long way to go.