Today has been a day.
Waking with the familiar void of anxiety and futility.
In perfect synchrony, an article on Facebook (I shouldn’t really be looking at Facebook in bed before I get up) about the vagus nerve and the gut’s reaction to emotion.
The way the system shuts down when exposed to intolerable pain.
So that sensations no longer belong and dissociation becomes the norm.
The disconnect becomes such a familiar coping mechanism that it sinks below consciousness.
Then, ok, I’m up and rolling because (thankfully) I have a meeting to get me motivated.
An electric toothbrush jars teeth and tongue out of self pity.
Both my coffee makers are mouldy.
It’s tea for Katie and me then.
I’m not very inspired or inspiring. Actually I’m scared. Confronted by the reminder to stay connected.
Aware of how easy it is to lapse and regress back to easy disconnection. (No pain here, just numbness and a grey blank)
At the very least, this gives me an understanding of addiction. Of rage. Of coldness. Of compulsion.
We make headway on my website.
Journey as art.
I nearly can’t face my art class.
A place of oasis.
The dread of calm.
Perhaps I’ll just go to bed.
I go to art.
Via a meal-out-cop-out.
Over the threshold of double-doors apprehension into the warm company of colour, light and loving kindness. Why would I dread this of all things.
It makes me weep.
Then the challenge of bringing love, light and warmth gently, slowly, onto my paper.
Peach blossom. Violet. Veridian. Rose. Neapolitan yellow. Prussian blue.
The colours of spiritual home.
The colours that enfold .
Just to manipulate these colours has taken me 20 years.
Now, rag in hand, I sit and wait while I reconnect with the essence of my picture. The intention.
To come home.
To bring my memories home.
The memories that translated my life in a way that brought creativity alive.
How could I not be thankful?
If I can just stay this side of the unknown.
Wait until the painting suggests itself without my interference.
I wasn’t really in the mood.
I wanted to bury myself at home.
Go to bed.
But the instant friendship through the door forgot my reticence.
Somehow, waiting for the painting reaps a little harvest.
Tonight’s wine (i’m out again because I want to try to capture today and eating out puts me in a certain frame of mind-less-mess ) takes me closer to writing of it.
I got it.
The colour study floats into soft form.
A fleeting glimpse of the “vingt regards de l’enfant Jesu”.
Of little faces going home.
Of that corridor full of relief.
I want to cry.
Meanders through, a curve of spine.
Facing in, facing out?
We. Ours. Together.
A community of shared life.
What did those years add up to?
Then there was no hand at my back.
Nobody to hold my hand.
However much they tried.
Pachulski, Ravel, Schumann, Brahms.
Practice; the place of safety.
The dressing gown that wrapped herself around me.
It’s all very well to know these things.
(Ramble ramble between the wooze of wine.)
The point is that I have painted my way through survival.
Played my way out of loss.
Dared to open doors onto vistas I would not have chosen.
Here I am.
Not far short of 60 and life is an astounding discovery.
When I was 40 I thought I’d be sussed by now.
What a joke!
(Gullible to the last. )
Can I paint a hand that offers to cherish?
A hand at my back.
on the deskanorum
Milli on the floorum
The school song suddenly has meaning.
“Grow old along with me.
The best is yet to be.
Potter and clay endure. ”