Musing
Posted by Elise | Filed under Elise, Featured Articles, General Chatter
Probably I’ll follow John Berger’s lead (if I’m to match my steps in any…why not. If there are those who trudge as diligent as pilgrims to grauman’s chinese theater, in my birth land of fakes and plastics, then my choice shall be sanctioned among the greatest.)
Once in consciousness I leapt from life, and in looking down on the earth-tone-scape, knew beyond the scope of the aged cognac tint of my eyes how beauty was to be constructed. How, hovering there a sweetness rose to my ears and the flavor was beautiful and Mozart and Gatsby (Fitzgerald true, but specifically that spice of Gatsby- poignant & distinct as saffron.)
I knew, that in the slant and lethargic pull of a chewed pen across the cheapest page, I could re-create that beauty (savored and saved behind my eyes) and give it as jewels to the life we love and loath at a seconds tick.
Give it freely, to be read by many or millions in the mind; or in whispers that reach just seconds past the lips-to themselves; or out loud, but read with the unmistakable melodic pull of say Lena Horne in the Champs Elysées.
I’m an artist, yes. And in many ill attempts of both triumph and failure, covered from elbow to ankle in a brilliant cerulean, I knew it was not by paint alone. Knew that image compelled me; took my left step and beckoned my right to follow, but was not my arm or call to war. Painting was only my prayer to perpetuate sanity. And I prayed it piously.
It is the word-language, the one misunderstood and butchered, that I take up before the world to cure, to conquer, to will, to be…
I introduce myself. This is me-more real. Without eye color, sex, creed, or race. Without hardship and inherent labels placed upon the veins that suck melanin into babies. I, being one of those melanin babies. This is me-more real.
Stationed like the portrait of Olympia minus her maid or Hemingway in le Dôme, penning MY “Hills like White Elephants.” Recounting MY “Moveable Feast” of debauchery and London exploits to Jenni (our patron saint of all things indulgent & wonderful & grand & at times very German & chocolate) and the pages that pour from me THERE.
Stationed, sketching my Le Bar aux Folies-Bergère to the very detail that screams modernity- ever so politely in moleskin notebooks. Whether it’s the racist theologians or the political correctness of a knitting club, the absurdity of those trapeze slippers still hangs near; tapping a light syncopation to My Brightest Diamond)
And one would say “it’s all in a days work.”
It’s enough muse & character, dialogue & dimwittedness, and intellectual trajectory to hit your mark every time.
It’s Brew Awakening.
I am a writer, and this is my office.
