الخميس، 11 أغسطس، 2011

The Wedding



I'm actually excitedly waiting for my sketchbook to arrive from the back of a taxi, instead of spending much time on the computer, actually doing nothing, reading what i always read, and playing what I always play, the 'death' has lifted, and I've not so much noticed, but 'noted down' that I have a sort of small smile playing around my lips, I'm not hiding inside some tiny room waiting for the hell downstairs to leave...I like watching the rain through the doors, it isn't always weeping,  and I'm spinning on a new leather chair, sunshine has lost the fiery ball in the sky, and I don't boil over in what was said, and I don't get the piffs, and everything that shouldn't be said has remained silent...

 I have some kind of monster I'm trying to corrupt, in pen, in watercolour, in oil...to be part of a painting inspired by all the Turner's, and the Constables (Hadleigh Castle where I've been many times, though I've never seen it look so wild, as he cut through all the surrounding fields, to add in the Thames River, and now the ruin sits on regularly mowed lawns, this was painted around the time his wife died, and it is also wild, the colours are gloomy, and the clouds are thick and and dark, dirty and wild, and the Van Holst's (Goethe's Faust, the favourite one, sorry, Gerter, not, Go eff)...I like the depth of the green background that melts into the fairy's face...Turner paints the worse kind of figures, he has a mighty Hercules (I forget quite who) in the middle of a storm, waving two bendy sausage arms, with a fat blobby figure...all his figures are fat blobs, all I have to do is work out how to paint an immense amount of oil paint layers for the sky, and what detail to put into figures, and what damned historical type of story...I've been introduced to another German Royalty called Herkommer, which I must research for grandad...I've shown two friends, a picture I stood in once, Absalom's Tomb in the Kidron Valley, the goats have gone, I think the top has fallen off the tomb, and now it's surrounded by gravestones...I have to be a little more transfixed by the evil face of the Man Who Taught Blake How to Paint...best to avoid even looking at the thing...

 I'm drawing images; from images I see in shadows, in the worls of woodwork, in dirty splatters on walls, on myopic faraway details, on spillages, on messy paints on walls...and I keep finding monsters...a dog like dragon standing on a pig like beast...a 'sky monster' like a huge bat with scaly skin and many wings...I want the Constable clouds, and the Turner landscapes, cliffs in the corners...made up buildings, G. Moreau's figures...some 'fairy blobs with snaky bodies and human heads' which appeared on the dried milk running down my mirror...

Now I forget why I am smiling.

Perhaps I should write here what was said.

I hate to listen most times, and this time I'm being assured that not listening isn't all that bad. I've gone to them clearer and wiser. And this time I like hearing them, instead of the worrying them.

Well, I'm going to put a little sketch up here of my dog monster...

I heard don't worry about a thing, "You are welcome to Higher Heaven...." "You have Eternal Life..."

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