Avouleance
Studying to better see and share the beauty
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Of the Artist (needs editing)[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Septober 53rd[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]For the first morning in whiles upon whiles[/SIZE][SIZE=14.666666666666666px] [/SIZE][SIZE=18.666666666666664px]the mist has withdrawn. It’s clear enough for me to cesarean my way out of my tent and see the edge of this rocky outcrop I’ve ended up perched upon. The stone’s been blasted bare since before I was born, rigormortis to the touch when I’m not on the blanket I brought up here. Out from under what I call cover are my easels, bound to the ground with rope and pitons to stop wind or gravity stealing it from me. Kept dry by tarp that I have to rush to get off, cause I can’t wait out the clarity. Breakfast would have to be lunch, or dinner depending on how long I’m able to work.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I used to get told that my pictures were the wrong way round, that they were supposed to be wider than they were tall because that’s how you paint landscapes, but I don’t anymore. Unless that’s what the birds are singing about, but I’m sure they’ve more important things to think about, like gossiping at how shabby and eggless of a nest I’ve made. It’s the second least helpful criticism I’ve had about my work, after the word yonic.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Looking down the scope of my rifle I can see the bear body isn’t even bones by now, the only evidence is that I’ve one less bullet and some bugs are happier. I’d have sworn it took me longer to pull the trigger than has passed since. Approaching my easel, with a rag drenched in spirits, I rub at the browns and blacks I’d used for it’s body until they blur into the background of dirt. All that’s left now is to paint over the few specks of red and that weren’t going away. I’d make sure the shot was clean, drenched in adrenaline I had all the time I needed to line up crosshair with cerebral cortex. While it went about its business foraging, not even aware of me. It didn’t suffer, just slumped forward, ignoring the extra orifice you could even have thought it was sleeping. I wonder if it had heard, the noise, felt like more sound than such wide open country had room for. As it resounded around me, travelling down the canyon and I don’t know how much further, all I could wonder was if it beat my bullet to the bear’s brain and who I’d sent scampering. I didn’t do any more painting that day, my hands weren’t going to work for the week at least. By the time I was better the weather took its turn to be terrible. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]If a tree falls in the forest do I have to repaint that part of my picture, well yes, artistic integrity. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I didn’t bring enough canvases, couldn’t carry them. So I’m cycling, when I run out the oldest is wintered away, then I can wash off the white and start again. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Unfortunately acetone doesn’t work as well on the real winter. I can feels my daylight dwindled, and accounting for fog I might as well hibernate, or go home. But I know that’s not happening. It would be rude to my subject, and I won’t be the one who blinks first. Every day, well the clear ones, there’s new lines I have to add to my art work, the ones on my face happen automatically at least. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]There’s this pillar, in the distance, I don’t understand how it’s still standing and it’s a pain to draw the light on it. If I could come back in a couple centuries or so, or however long it takes erosion to edit my work for me I’d wait.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]It was worth it, I got each of my easels every 30[/SIZE][SIZE=18.666666666666664px]°[/SIZE][SIZE=18.666666666666664px], as close to panoramas as I’ve the resources for, the really tricky part was making sure I have the sun where it was supposed to be in each picture. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]At night, especially when I’m not nearly drunk enough, I think things like, why and more pertinently why the fuck? All this effort, while bugs and frost compete to see who bites harder. But I couldn’t put anyone else through this, and from up here, where you're close enough to the clouds to feel like you’ll fall in as easily as off the edge, people deserve to see it.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I’m shocked how good a shot I’ve become, brought down a bird today, bastard tried to take some of my food, and if you don’t mind the burn or bullet marks, buzzards good eating. I asked afterwards if there weren’t any hard feelings, but didn’t get a response. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]My subject is spread open, so seductively, a weaker person would snap their spine, but despite their age these parts are so flexible. Fatally far below me is a steam, that barely there hair line blue, that winds it’s way through more than a few of my pieces. The forest is thick, which I’ve heard some people don’t like but It’s always been my preference. It’s the intricacy, that I could spend my life, so many times over, I’d be dirt before I could even get one dust might just right. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Do people pay for them? Is the question on smaller minds than mine, mainly my mother’s, because she just doesn’t see it, they’re shit. All of my work, really it’s nothing like the real thing, hard as I try, these rectangles, flat and flaccid where the forest is this torrent on timescales we can’t even see. I’ve seen the scraps of castles and cities, digested and egested as their churned up and overgrown again and again. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Clearly I’m dying faster the planet cause the winters aren’t getting warmer. I’d call up that city in the distance to complain about the light but I don’t know the number. Plus I my phone doesn’t likely work anymore, wherever it’s gotten to. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I can cross Zuse off as a potential fan, or is that me taking the loss of picture to lightning strike too personally. I could ask the gods what the odds were, but the answer is of course 1, eventually. Considering all the time this takes, all the pictures I’ve painted and all the times I’ve painted each, going from 12 to 11 probably isn’t such a loss. If it had been good maybe that would matter. The storm swirls around me, it can afford to wait me out, spend days at a time planning for a split second strike. Not minding how soon it’s work vanishes. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I wonder which is a smaller faction, my pictures as a piece of a place, or my life compared to how long this place will be here. You may be wondering where the paint keep coming from, and the only answer I can come up with is the necessity of what I’m doing here. I get my sandwiches from the same place sisyphus does because there’s a job to be done. I remember asking, why I had to go to a school where I just didn’t get it, father said I he knew I’d fail, that was the point. I think I get that now, I just didn’t find the thing worth doing wrong for me yet. Why would anyone who could come out here chose my art anyway, when there’s this beauty. But it’s not about the people who have a choice is it, it’s about the people that don’t devote themselves, we’re accommodating those without the discipline or limbs to make it up a mountain, and in that case maybe my work is all they deserve. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I can’t remember my last conversation with someone who didn’t come out of a bottle, though djinn and gin both have the same habit of giving you exactly what you wish for with an ironic twist, but the hangovers on this overhang are getting to samish to be painful anymore. Though alcoholism is part of the way to being a proper artist, and I’ve not had to cut off any of my ears. It’s as my eyes dart to the rusted survival knife that I realise I’m teetering towards considering mutilation for recognition a worthy trade. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I don’t remember when I got the news my parents were dead, I mean no one told me, but well I presume by now they’d have died the way most people do, inevitably. Which is a less exciting end than I expect they’d have imagined for me. I’ve started running out of bullets, I don’t know when the number began being finite again, but I can take the hint. These woods have been surprisingly kind to me, let me develop my techniques. Man If this crone could show the girl who climbed all the way up here what she’d do someday. I think she’d cry as much as I am now. But it’s too late to be as good as I’ve become. Arthritis and rheumatism pushed me over my peak as an artist which means my place on this peak isn’t being earnt. When I can’t placate my subject, why should I be provided for?[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I’ve been kindly left one bullet, and it’s no longer sending animals to eat. There’s so much I want to say, to look the location I made a lover out of in the face and say how I feel, how pissed off I am, how dare it lead me on so long and leave me. Because it would rather be in the future than with me. How I’d like one last embrace, where it runs its worms through my hair, let’s my body be one with the earth, I’m sitting atop a mountain of questions and feelings. Knowing that it’s a conversation it could blink and miss, just like I always was. I’m too old to even be angry, I’m just tired. Does it even make a difference how my death is done, it left me a bullet but how could understand the difference between the time it takes to shoot someone and starve them? [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I look at my life’s work, one rectangle, in colours I have to remember because of how bad my eyes have gotten. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]“Do you like it?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Septober 53rd[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]For the first morning in whiles upon whiles[/SIZE][SIZE=14.666666666666666px] [/SIZE][SIZE=18.666666666666664px]the mist has withdrawn. It’s clear enough for me to cesarean my way out of my tent and see the edge of this rocky outcrop I’ve ended up perched upon. The stone’s been blasted bare since before I was born, rigormortis to the touch when I’m not on the blanket I brought up here. Out from under what I call cover are my easels, bound to the ground with rope and pitons to stop wind or gravity stealing it from me. Kept dry by tarp that I have to rush to get off, cause I can’t wait out the clarity. Breakfast would have to be lunch, or dinner depending on how long I’m able to work.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I used to get told that my pictures were the wrong way round, that they were supposed to be wider than they were tall because that’s how you paint landscapes, but I don’t anymore. Unless that’s what the birds are singing about, but I’m sure they’ve more important things to think about, like gossiping at how shabby and eggless of a nest I’ve made. It’s the second least helpful criticism I’ve had about my work, after the word yonic.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Looking down the scope of my rifle I can see the bear body isn’t even bones by now, the only evidence is that I’ve one less bullet and some bugs are happier. I’d have sworn it took me longer to pull the trigger than has passed since. Approaching my easel, with a rag drenched in spirits, I rub at the browns and blacks I’d used for it’s body until they blur into the background of dirt. All that’s left now is to paint over the few specks of red and that weren’t going away. I’d make sure the shot was clean, drenched in adrenaline I had all the time I needed to line up crosshair with cerebral cortex. While it went about its business foraging, not even aware of me. It didn’t suffer, just slumped forward, ignoring the extra orifice you could even have thought it was sleeping. I wonder if it had heard, the noise, felt like more sound than such wide open country had room for. As it resounded around me, travelling down the canyon and I don’t know how much further, all I could wonder was if it beat my bullet to the bear’s brain and who I’d sent scampering. I didn’t do any more painting that day, my hands weren’t going to work for the week at least. By the time I was better the weather took its turn to be terrible. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]If a tree falls in the forest do I have to repaint that part of my picture, well yes, artistic integrity. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I didn’t bring enough canvases, couldn’t carry them. So I’m cycling, when I run out the oldest is wintered away, then I can wash off the white and start again. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Unfortunately acetone doesn’t work as well on the real winter. I can feels my daylight dwindled, and accounting for fog I might as well hibernate, or go home. But I know that’s not happening. It would be rude to my subject, and I won’t be the one who blinks first. Every day, well the clear ones, there’s new lines I have to add to my art work, the ones on my face happen automatically at least. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]There’s this pillar, in the distance, I don’t understand how it’s still standing and it’s a pain to draw the light on it. If I could come back in a couple centuries or so, or however long it takes erosion to edit my work for me I’d wait.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]It was worth it, I got each of my easels every 30[/SIZE][SIZE=18.666666666666664px]°[/SIZE][SIZE=18.666666666666664px], as close to panoramas as I’ve the resources for, the really tricky part was making sure I have the sun where it was supposed to be in each picture. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]At night, especially when I’m not nearly drunk enough, I think things like, why and more pertinently why the fuck? All this effort, while bugs and frost compete to see who bites harder. But I couldn’t put anyone else through this, and from up here, where you're close enough to the clouds to feel like you’ll fall in as easily as off the edge, people deserve to see it.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I’m shocked how good a shot I’ve become, brought down a bird today, bastard tried to take some of my food, and if you don’t mind the burn or bullet marks, buzzards good eating. I asked afterwards if there weren’t any hard feelings, but didn’t get a response. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]My subject is spread open, so seductively, a weaker person would snap their spine, but despite their age these parts are so flexible. Fatally far below me is a steam, that barely there hair line blue, that winds it’s way through more than a few of my pieces. The forest is thick, which I’ve heard some people don’t like but It’s always been my preference. It’s the intricacy, that I could spend my life, so many times over, I’d be dirt before I could even get one dust might just right. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Do people pay for them? Is the question on smaller minds than mine, mainly my mother’s, because she just doesn’t see it, they’re shit. All of my work, really it’s nothing like the real thing, hard as I try, these rectangles, flat and flaccid where the forest is this torrent on timescales we can’t even see. I’ve seen the scraps of castles and cities, digested and egested as their churned up and overgrown again and again. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]Clearly I’m dying faster the planet cause the winters aren’t getting warmer. I’d call up that city in the distance to complain about the light but I don’t know the number. Plus I my phone doesn’t likely work anymore, wherever it’s gotten to. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I can cross Zuse off as a potential fan, or is that me taking the loss of picture to lightning strike too personally. I could ask the gods what the odds were, but the answer is of course 1, eventually. Considering all the time this takes, all the pictures I’ve painted and all the times I’ve painted each, going from 12 to 11 probably isn’t such a loss. If it had been good maybe that would matter. The storm swirls around me, it can afford to wait me out, spend days at a time planning for a split second strike. Not minding how soon it’s work vanishes. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I wonder which is a smaller faction, my pictures as a piece of a place, or my life compared to how long this place will be here. You may be wondering where the paint keep coming from, and the only answer I can come up with is the necessity of what I’m doing here. I get my sandwiches from the same place sisyphus does because there’s a job to be done. I remember asking, why I had to go to a school where I just didn’t get it, father said I he knew I’d fail, that was the point. I think I get that now, I just didn’t find the thing worth doing wrong for me yet. Why would anyone who could come out here chose my art anyway, when there’s this beauty. But it’s not about the people who have a choice is it, it’s about the people that don’t devote themselves, we’re accommodating those without the discipline or limbs to make it up a mountain, and in that case maybe my work is all they deserve. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I can’t remember my last conversation with someone who didn’t come out of a bottle, though djinn and gin both have the same habit of giving you exactly what you wish for with an ironic twist, but the hangovers on this overhang are getting to samish to be painful anymore. Though alcoholism is part of the way to being a proper artist, and I’ve not had to cut off any of my ears. It’s as my eyes dart to the rusted survival knife that I realise I’m teetering towards considering mutilation for recognition a worthy trade. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I don’t remember when I got the news my parents were dead, I mean no one told me, but well I presume by now they’d have died the way most people do, inevitably. Which is a less exciting end than I expect they’d have imagined for me. I’ve started running out of bullets, I don’t know when the number began being finite again, but I can take the hint. These woods have been surprisingly kind to me, let me develop my techniques. Man If this crone could show the girl who climbed all the way up here what she’d do someday. I think she’d cry as much as I am now. But it’s too late to be as good as I’ve become. Arthritis and rheumatism pushed me over my peak as an artist which means my place on this peak isn’t being earnt. When I can’t placate my subject, why should I be provided for?[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I’ve been kindly left one bullet, and it’s no longer sending animals to eat. There’s so much I want to say, to look the location I made a lover out of in the face and say how I feel, how pissed off I am, how dare it lead me on so long and leave me. Because it would rather be in the future than with me. How I’d like one last embrace, where it runs its worms through my hair, let’s my body be one with the earth, I’m sitting atop a mountain of questions and feelings. Knowing that it’s a conversation it could blink and miss, just like I always was. I’m too old to even be angry, I’m just tired. Does it even make a difference how my death is done, it left me a bullet but how could understand the difference between the time it takes to shoot someone and starve them? [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]I look at my life’s work, one rectangle, in colours I have to remember because of how bad my eyes have gotten. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=18.666666666666664px]“Do you like it?”[/SIZE]
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