Saturday morning: ramblings of a painter

While drinking a good cup of coffee certainly enhances the impression of the new day, it's the little quirks and twitches in the fabric of excistence that makes life worth waking up to. The newspapers were filled with one threat after another discomforting idea from government, dare I say the usual stuff? It's rather sad to see media sculpting a Frankenstein of a worldview, incoherent, full of violence and misery. That is until I step outside and speak to my neighbours or watch a busload of tourists being escorted to the lunapark the citycentre is nowadays. The neighbours talk about the lost parkingspace and the tourists make a serious effort to keep the group together.

No mail.

Inside it feels desperate for contact, the extrovert states that having no bills for a day relaxes the mind. The first one is misleading, the last one hypocritical. Misleading, because from the start of having company I'm looking for ways to get out of it. It feels like prison being kept in the heart of someone else. The responsibility that comes with it is too much to bear, too much to give up for. I'd end up in the red. That one way street of giving up the only thing you love, might look romantic in the eyes of the receiver, but really, does one need hell and bad luck all the time to proof something simple like caring? People, even I, demand way more than they can offer themselves.

Hypocritical, because everyone and their neighbour knows that's just postponing the n-th execution of the plan to save up.

The easle.

Standing there, all covered in drips, smudges and try-outs, begging for another smacking. That's how I think about the object of responsibility, the totem in this household, the only way out of this misery of excistence. Actually, that last bit was dramatized for effects. This life is miserable, yes, but not to the point that it triggers constant depression. The disappointments themselves are rather a trigger to do better, a way out of what? Poverty is not a state of mind nor is it asked for. It happens, like everything else. It's the most challenging toolkit to start with. But is it poverty that I want to escape? Sometimes yes, sometimes not. It elevates creativity, but on the other hand it crushes motivation. Stop seeing art or creation as a divine intervention is a good start, but sometimes it can be the right escape to a land of your own, a place to hide from fears and loneliness. Brush stroke after brush stroke, fading in and fading out again, irregular shapes become distinct forms and without mumbling even one letter a story appears.

Talking.

Silence is golden, but what about tonnes of silver? Babble-sick is what people call me, I see them as my personal laboratories. Places to experiment, their minds, your mind, as a place to explore different views and try out new ones. Not really mindfucks or a belief of influence, no, just places to see "what happens if". The best experience to have a little chat with someones brain is actually not talking, but showing. The moment a person is intrigued or fascinated, the exploring begins. Without me being there, we are talking in a way that is ideal. I tell you a story and you make of it as you like. Contact without the physics, you creating a reality of your own by just seeing the one I just made. When you say talking, I say alchemy.

The third cup is ready, that typical bubbling sound of brewing burps up the last drops of heated water, making the next round of exciting the guts. Let's add a dose of nicotine and wonder about the layers of feathers. A big black crowned crane is waiting to be finished. How to get that realism right. The more unrealistic it becomes, the more people seem to like it. Are they looking for the same distraction of self-imposed reality? Or are they looking for beauty as is, just to satisfy their need for satisfaction? I do not really care at this point. Those pesky feathers are having a ball, seeing me trip over the returning dilemma of realism or reality. What influences more today: the outer or the inner?