essence

There was a Disney movie on; something with Dean Jones or Kurt Russell or Fred MacMurray.

I was on my second bottle of wine.

I was painting.

Didn’t know exactly what I was painting, but the brush was definitely touching the canvas every now and then.

I started out painting a still life, but it ended up looking more like a stillborn, so I painted over it, and stood back, eyeing the colors.

What colors were there.

It looked like a puddle of vomit.

I decided the hell with it. I was tired of trying to be creative. Didn’t have the patience or the talent.

So I walked outside with my bottle of wine and stared at the moon, thinking, Jesus, feels like November out here, even though it was April.

I looked at my watch. It was eight forty-five.

I was tired, had a headache and a canker sore.

I thought about my mom’s final words on her deathbed: "I did what was needed and 

didn’t wait for anyone else to do it."

Somebody in the next yard was saying, "I know it sounds cornball, but we have to be OK with us inside first."

Someone else said: "I know that. But how do I get to that point, is my problem."

Someone else said: "It starts with self. ‘To be or not to be’. Shakespeare. Think about it. And be, be you! Read Dr. Phil’s ‘Self Matters.’"

Then the voices trailed off.

I think they went down by the riverside to smoke some pot and reevaluate their lives.

I would have liked to have gone with them but I really wasn’t in the mood.

That damn painting was still on my mind.

Why couldn’t I learn?

A ladybug suddenly landed on my right shoulder.

I was about to blow her away but figured this was where she was meant to be right now, crawling down my arm, navigating her way through my arm hairs.

Why disrupt the natural order of things?

It started to sprinkle.

I looked at the sky.

It was smooth and black, but I could tell it was doing a slow burn.

I felt a breeze on the nape of my neck and raindroplets on the crown of my head.

Meanwhile, the ladybug had traveled toward my hand.

Her trek had thus far been quite uneventful, but she suddenly appeared to be disorientated. Flustered. She spread her wings and flew away into the silky night, through the drops of rain.

I went inside to reevaluate my painting.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Being a painter, I have trouble understanding this fellow and his lack of passion. Is he distracted or just not interested? Perhaps it's the wine. Your writing is first class, but this one may appeal only to non-artists. I hope you're not offended by honesty.

[Philip Gaber]

Depressed, most likely.

[Philip Gaber]

Not offended at all. Thanks for the feedback, Sam.

[JD Major]

Love this!
A unique take on the Big Questions, and well-writ.
...haha, maybe, put down the brush and stick with the quill :)
JD

[roarke]

Since I’ve taken up photography, I’ve discovered how many artists in later life take up photography and how many photographers take up painting/art…. Along the way, I also dug into writing, to try and untangle my metaphor dyslexia… yeah, that’s a thing, lol. And that is how I can relate to this write and its “be here now” perspective.