A portrait painter in the Renaissance style. But how could I dare to aspire to best Gentileschi or Holbein. I can let that lofty ambition lie in wait for another go at this mortal coil.
Words. I want to paint with words.
I am asking myself do I want to open a vein within myself to give life to another of the stories stored deep in my psyche, for I am certain it is there that they rest, in the dark recesses of my own void, waiting quietly, breathing almost imperceptibly so as not to picked upon.
There is a vein that pulses now, risen and deep dark purple, like a varicose, that wants to be leeched, bled, released out to be read and devoured by hungry eyes that long for more.
So I sharpen my tongue, I hone my nib and I pierce that swollen artery, and as your eyes glide along the words, it is this blood of mine that flows.
Where does this pooling of viscous red now take us? My arm is laid upon a map and we both wait with lips parted, transfixed upon this venal liquid. I imagine you, dear reader, cannot draw your eyes away, but take a shuddering breath, lick your now dry lips and stare anew. I am smiling, gloating, perhaps, at this act of treachery I have opened up.
The gentle stream of my inner workings wends its wounded way towards a bleak landscape. Little compassion here, in the winds that toil continuously, moaning round and round the building, slamming doors and piling rubbish into corners. All is grey, unloved, poor and forgotten.
We have found our aim, the blood is true.
I blow out the candle, separate the coals to burn themselves out and leap up to stand tall and strong in the wide open window frame. Looking down is sheer cliffs, looking up is swirling mist. I know where I go, stepping off the ledge I spread my wings to soar….
Scrubbing, with the side of my fist, to clear the grimy pane over the kitchen sink, you there, are right before me, washing up, angrily wiping away tears with the back of your already wet hand. You are a sad sight, occasionally leaning both hands on the sink, sinking into your shoulders you sob. Your hair is a mess and one wide bra strap dangles limply off one shoulder.
Why am I here? What is this hell hole, why this unhappy woman?
I am whipped around by my thorny shoulder, and there is the office sneak, hissing at me, wings flapping, mane damp and flying in the relentless storm that is always around her.
I knew you had to come, I just knew.. she tries to snap at me, to nip off some part of me to prove her “truth” I duck and shy quickly away.
Why do you care? She hisses again. You were told to leave these alone. No one cares for them and nor should you. You were told, you disobeyed.
I turn back to the window, aware I am vulnerable to feathers being pulled out. But come, I invite with my long hooked finger, come look, she is so unhappy. I want to know why.
Orly joins me in peering through the dust and dirt. Hmm. Don’t you know? Can you not tell? Can you you not see why?
I shake my head, more trusting now we are talking, holding myself in place with my talons dug into the rotting wood, resisting, wincing at the whipping of her sharp tail on my back.
She is in Hell…..
How do you know? I ask, craning further forward.
She is deep and far into Hell. We cannot touch those already there.. you know the rules. Come away.
But how do you know? I insist.
Look. See behind her.
She is the mother of a two year old.