Flashing red light means go.

On days like today, a canvas becomes a pressure suit. A savior. It listens. It protects. It lets me be whoever I am at that exact moment or it can let me be whoever I would like to be instead. The canvas doesnt complain, judge, or fester. Its a door to another place, and whatever I make of it, is what is. My paintbrush becomes a key. And there I am, opening doors into worlds raw with emotion.

I have a theory. I believe disappoinment, angst, sadness, and anger always lead to some of the best works of an aspiring artist. That is sincerely difficult to place out there as I dont normally refer to myself by such a title...but, art is a large part of what drives me. And I aspire to own an artform, make it my own, and not be consumed by its intensity. My progress so far has led me to my previously stated theory.Those moments in a dim room, where the cold is only fought by the warmth of nicotine and caffeine unleash a torment that can often result in a masterpiece. New ideas seem stronger, sturdier and significantly more powerful than those which emerge in the haze of happiness.
I was in a dark place today. Doubts, questions and the exhaustion that resulted from a lack of answers were dominant in my solitude.  After hours of looking over details that were a maze to be easily lost in...I gave in to the only thing I knew was in my control at the moment. Through charcoal and led, little pieces of myself were regained. Every part was painful, making the process far from simple. Yet, by the time I reached for my paintbrush, I noticed my aching has subdued, a fondness for color had replaced it. The canvas was my pressure suit.

It stands in front of me now, waiting. Whether a need to run to it be a result of happiness or anger; it will always be waiting. I tend to forget that at times.

Then a day like today comes along.

Love,

Jen

VIII

in hopes of a better morning.

summer night with coffee brought me this.

She had seven keys on her right set of ribs. It was the first time he had laid eyes upon them. The questions started rushing through his head. He knew there werent conventional responses waiting to be delivered;the seven didnt stand as a representation of the seven deadly sins a dark society upheld so well, nor did it stand for seven names of loved ones who she deeply cherished...seven wasnt even a superficial lucky number. There was much more to it.

And he wasnt just giving her more credit due to the fact that she lay naked in front of him now.

He had come to find that there was an inspiring story behind every decision which she took. These six elaborately designed keys accompnied by the single black silhouette of one to make seven were the reason she woke up every morning. They came together to explain what was driving her.This was the why...this was why she held a paintbrush as a profession, this was why she adored walking, this was why she loved wearing that gold tree necklace. Do not be mistaken, these were never problems to solve, merely curiousities to fulfill. These keys had somehow given him an entirely new reason to love her desperately.
It was 2:22. He usually made a wish by this time; catching time with repeated numbers was a good luck charm, a wish could not be wasted. For months on end, he would wish for the same thing until he actually would feel closer to getting it; at times the wish would simply come true... It always had a funny way of working out. Everything that had occurred tonight was a wish of his...The moment she had the courage to remove her slip, the need she had to break down barriers on that bed, the way he could linger upon the curvature of her figure as the moonlight illuminated it. It worked. And then there were the seven keys on her ribs which had kept him awake even after she had surrendered to the dawn. Seven keys made him feel seven steps closer to the complicated nature which emcompassed her being and which he adored in the simplest, most basic of ways.

It was 5:55. He knew he needed to come up with a new wish, but he couldnt be bothered to do so now. Oddly enough, he felt a strong sense of relief in not wanting to wish for anything else; he had been liberated from his own strange tendencies. Even if there was no guarantee that it would be this way for good, he continued to bask in the happiness he felt. As if his thoughts had woken her, she turned over suddenly, stretched and smiled without opening her eyes. He kissed her forehead, breathed her in.
He was bound to her and her seven keys in the most peculiar way.

He didn't mind.




Love,
Jen


VIII

too much time has passed.

Turns out my writing time on Blogger was significantly cut down by the death of my previous laptop.

Regardless, ill have a chance to share new thoughts and observations of this adventurous summer which has been full of rewarding experiences. But, for now....ill just leave any readers with a lil obsession of mine.

For years, I have loved this song, but never quite came around to seaching for its title or artist...which seems slightly ridiculous for Thom Yorke's haunting voice would now be easily recognized. I first heard it in Baz Luhrman's Romeo and Juliet, where every beat of the song was accompanied by sweat, tears, and entrancing glances.

Talk Show Host by Radiohead. Listen to it.
.

You want me? Well fucking come and find me.
I'll be waiting with a gun and a pack of sandwiches.