RENAISSANCE OF MIND.

Out of troubled slumber, I awoke, not in the bed I slept nor in the clothes I wore. I rubbed my temples to make sense of things. I was in some kind of gallery; on its walls were a trillion paintings, each sharing the same horrid grin. They spoke among themselves in hushed tones, as if planning some great evil. I paid no attention to their chatter. I mused at whatever trick was being played on me; my father never spoke of this kind of dreams. In the corner of the room was a canvas, waiting like a husband whose wife is in labour,prancing back and forth, as if playing some insidious game. I walked towards it, and to impress my audience and whatever hidden observer lurking in the shadows, I cracked my knuckles ,louder than necessary. I was Carpaccio, Boltraffio and Agresi all in one. I reached to pick the brush set before me, but it rose as if with hands and feet. I needed not to hold it; it danced unassisted on the canvas before me, like a spineless stripper, bending her body in degrees she should not Its movements were cathartic; it danced to the melancholic beat of my pulse, swaying to the silent tunes of my mind. And when it had worn itself out, one of the kinder paintings told me where to go and what to do. Rociante materialised before me, still gaunt and gloomy, wings flapping by his sides. I rode him through snoring clouds, I looked over a panorama of fallowed lands, on which green men in green jackets digged pertinaciously. I sought the winged connoisseurs of art and I found them, dignified in glowing robes. I crushed the persistent urge to bow. I showed them my painting. They too spoke among themselves in hushed tones, their eyes did not leave my art work. After what seemed like a day, the oldest among them spoke his mind. He considered my strokes aberrant and disturbing and the rest nodded in agreement. I cursed them and took my paintbrush with me - it was heavy. I climbed the tree of buried hopes and accidentally, I kicked a fruit from its place, a fruit on which I still found Eve's bite marks .As I sat on my vantage point, overlooking the strange land, an ugly bird swooped down on the branch next to mine, its black feathers perfectly coiffed. Its eyes glowed like the mother of mother-mother-of-pearls. There was a chill in its voice that left the whole of hell in abeyance. And I expecting vituperation, buried my face in my hands, but I listened. The veracity of its words was comfort to me and as we spoke, I felt the breath on my lungs stifle. My eyes watered, but I could see in the distance, despite the blur - land gremlins had possessed a cabal of hooded men, who walked with the gait of drunken Neanderthals. Blue, viscous blood dripping from their heads, one sporting a torn torso. As my air supply depleted, I convulsed, and it was as though I practiced the fandango. My feathered companion let out a startling cry and the hooded men vanished and it was as if they were never there. My breathing returned but the bird was gone and in its place was a pink, glowing petunia, the kind in my painting

Reviews

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~ what a beautiful word-painting... i suppose the kindness within us gets triggered when someone else shows us kindness... and that is beautiful... much like the "glowing petunia"...because then the effect of the unkind on our lives vanishes... the "reniassance" is possibly the end of the phase of depletion... one that is replaced by a phase of creation...

[Joshua Lean]

You are indeed a treasure.

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~ thank you for your kind words... i value them immensely...

[Priscilla Sayers]

Beauty brought forth, created, from the depths of darkness. Another remarkable piece.