Masterpiece of Madness

Thick black paint streaks across a bleached canvas. The colour is suffocating as it clings to the clean material of the canvas.  It slashes the calm white and leaves an open wound of bubbling molten Tourmaline that spits and hisses in a scorching protest.

The artist hears this and smears the paint back across her backdrop. Thin crossed eyebrows create waves of furrows over her forehead as she drags her paintbrush through the throbbing wound in frustration.  

She dunks her instrument into a gooey blob of vibrant yellow and splashes it onto the black before running her fingers through the ugly mess before her

She is a conductor; desperately trying to guide an orchestra of colour into collaborating to produce a masterpiece. But oh how they protest! Oh how they wiggle and squirm across the pale backdrop now soiled by warped creativity. Her expression transforms from dissatisfaction to distress as her vision of beauty slips away from her oily fingers.

She knows what she wants. She can see the idea as clearly as if it stood before her with its hand outstretched beckoning to her. But she cannot capture it. Her mind surpasses her abilities and the limitations of her capabilities are overwhelming as they restrain her.

 She spins around and jerkily runs her hand through her knotted hair seemingly unaware of the trail of sticky tangles she leaves behind.

“Red,” she mutters to herself and grabs another brush that shivers in her grimy fist.

There is nothing serene about this moment. There is nothing composed about constructing art. True inspiration has the ability to possess any who attempt to work with it. Inspiration is violent and desperate and can reduce a rational mind to raw madness if it is fierce enough.

However there is something beautiful to be found in the few measly moments of pure artistic form. There is something genuine and wild and striking about watching chaos transform into flawless design.

It is the talent; the ability to create perfection in a moment, without practice, without help, that is so appealing. 

It takes madness to create magnificence. This truth is found in the bloody ear of a man murdered by his own revolver. It is found in the hallucinations and nightmares belonging to The Scream. It sits under the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel wailing soundlessly. In 1955 it was found jumping out of a building from the 11^th floor which had the most exquisite view of France.

It takes nothing more than a moment to create a masterpiece… a moment of pure madness.  

If

If I could see love, how would it look?

Would it be long, thin, and knotted in places?

Like one of my old, overused, muddy shoelaces?

Would it be soggy and flat?

Like when the dog chewed on my fathers fishing hat?

Or would it look like my thick homework book?

If I could see love, how would it look?

If I could taste love, what would its flavor be?

Would it be the first glass of wine I was given at twenty-one?

Or at the office when I ate my delicious hot cross bun?

Would it be the cake I cut at my wedding?

Or when I was pregnant and ate nothing but packets of that cheesy fling?

I’m almost positive love would be sweet. Don’t you agree?

If I could taste love, what would its flavor be?

If I could touch love, how would it feel?

Would it be like hugging my child before he decided to leave home?

Would it be like holding my husband’s hand as we walked through a flowered dome?

Would it feel like gravel? Or glass?

Would it feel like bone? Or brass?

Would it be the proud-ness I felt when my husband and I kissed our first grandchild, snatching her out of the arms of her dad Neil?

If I could touch love, how would it feel?

If love could breathe and talk, which person would it be?

That question however is definitely the most easy,

It would be the old man, in his worn-down chair, wearing the paper hat he had gotten as a present from our grandchild Kerry. Snoring quietly as the day came to an end.

If love could breathe and talk, which person would it be?

It would be the old man sitting opposite me. 

Blade in Vain

You don’t know what it is like to feel dirty. To feel ugly. To feel controlled. Look at me, what do you see, tell me, what do you see? Because to truly understand this kind of addiction; you need to face the outcome, without fear, without disgust.

So look at me.

I am the result of society. I am the product of human opinions, judgements and ideologies. You look away now, because the guilt begins to tug at your brain. You don’t want to see me, because my ugliness only reflects you. But I ask, look again, and look again you do, because humans, humans are inquisitive.

You see the cuts. Do they make you shudder? Do they cut-cut-cut at your pretty little picture of what is right and wrong? Do they ooze over your contorted version of reality? Have you ever put blade to skin? Have you ever felt the release of blood? Warm and thick. It makes you feel in control, like you have a say over yourself.

But the truth is you have no power. You are weak. We are all weak. Without our technology and our smart books and our petty concept of security we would be destroyed. But what they don’t tell you, is that what we think protects us, is actually the very thing that is destroying us, slowly, painfully.

And you choose to ignore it. Because you can’t face it. Well I have. I’ve faced what all you ‘smart’ people hide from. And I failed. Just like you all will eventually.

So lock me away, 

Drug me up, 

Tie me up. 

Wish to put me down like you would your weak injured dog.

Would that make you feel powerful? You look away now, ashamed, embarrassed. Because your thoughts were ‘wrong’. Not civilised. 

Well. Let me tell you this, our world, our humanity, our lives that we live desperately just to speed up the process of death. 

None of it is civilised.

My, my, now I know I’m making you squirm.  

Here Comes The Bride

Little fingers that belong to small hands are knotted together. A silver bracelet hangs from one wrist. The charm, a tiny oval diamond, sparkles in the sunlight like a beacon of a lighthouse, advising the skippers to steer away from the tower and the dress of treacherous coastal rocks it wears so warily.

Small feet inside little white slippers are barely visible beneath the silk wedding dress. The expensive fabric affectionately wraps around the waist and then falls to the floor in finely draped layers. The bride’s arms, shoulders and neck are swathed in exquisite cream Brussels lace. The appliqué design is painted over her fair skin. The pattern of different flowers in bloom gives this Gibson girl the look of a porcelain doll.

Long black eyelashes curve up to reveal polished sapphire jewels. Each eyebrow has been meticulously shaped to form the perfect arc. Golden blond hair sits atop her head like a halo resting upon the head of an angel. 

She is Cinderella today. Her prince, a modest dentist, stands waiting at the altar. This humble church has become a grand castle where they will dance until midnight. Two sets of aged wooden windows transform into extravagant Picture windows with polished emerald Tiffany glass. The crumbling brick walls become vast stone-cut hallways.    

This Cinderella smiles and blushes slightly. Her cheeks shade pink. Three little mice holding baskets of white rose petals shuffle along in front of her. Their eager little fingers snatch the petals and throw them at the ground before taking a step forward and beginning the ritual all over again.

The band plays hastily but she does not quicken her stride. The eyes watching try to push her forward but she is content at her pace. Everyone is afraid. Maybe she is uncertain? Maybe she will decide to leave her prince and not go through with it? Their thoughts, though silent, seemed to shout at her.

But she does not notice. Because she knows, as she keeps her steady gaze on her soon-to-be husband, that he will wait as long as he must. She knows, as she walks down the aisle, that these steps are the final words of a chapter she is about to leave. She saviours the memories of the characters she encountered. And as she takes the final steps to meet her prince, she feels a page turning. She welcomes the new chapter, excited to begin it.