An Apology of a New Art
Words have always had a way of failing in the communication of this darkened corner of my room. Perhaps, they are failing even now. But, perhaps through these strangled words, these tangled vines, these half-lit lights you might come to see it, anyway.
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This biting and slicing thin slivers and tearing bits of this skin back is unpleasant, at best. It builds a burn that runs deep into the lines and stripes of the hand and the wrist and the heart. Without its context, it makes me want to pull my arm back. Because the heat is hot and the burn is bad and the fear is a thing that grows like a light bulb warming up around my mind.
But, I hold there because the truth is more important than the fear.
The unsaid truth that I have been here before, where fear is the only nib that etches the lines, the only ink that draws the shape and traces the way of a crooked mangled piece of work. Where the marks and scars could tell the story that's just behind the eyes of the lost chapters of a life.
Now, this tip is fine and thin and it shivers with the hope of a revelation. The mastery of a steady hand pulls the lines straight and narrow now, erasing the place where the lines were once wide and ill and untamed like a savage fire devouring all the oxygen. And, slowly, it emerges from the old landscape, thin and crafty lines that take their first breath, spreading out like wings across an open field, preparing for flight into the sky.
But, the spreading still hurts. And, I must remember this feeling, this burning, this dull ache after the pain first begins to fade. Remember this and remember the time before when the red was much deeper and the lines much harder to trace, to follow, to find the love in, to get to the way in. Then, when words and anger and fear and sorrow bit like a wildfire that could burn me up if I didn't run fast enough. When edges and tips and tongue tore at the surface like a wild tragedy too deep to get up, to set in to scratch out, to massive to stuff down.
If I remember, I will stand a chance against this storm.
So, I will take these words in ink and pen from cuts and claws to craft the outline of the story we have begun to tell. That we have begun to draw all upon our arm as a testament of the ways we have already been, as a testament to the ways we wish to go, as a testament of the things we aim to be.
And I if I remember, I will stand a chance against myself.
-------
This biting and slicing thin slivers and tearing bits of this skin back is unpleasant, at best. It builds a burn that runs deep into the lines and stripes of the hand and the wrist and the heart. Without its context, it makes me want to pull my arm back. Because the heat is hot and the burn is bad and the fear is a thing that grows like a light bulb warming up around my mind.
But, I hold there because the truth is more important than the fear.
The unsaid truth that I have been here before, where fear is the only nib that etches the lines, the only ink that draws the shape and traces the way of a crooked mangled piece of work. Where the marks and scars could tell the story that's just behind the eyes of the lost chapters of a life.
Now, this tip is fine and thin and it shivers with the hope of a revelation. The mastery of a steady hand pulls the lines straight and narrow now, erasing the place where the lines were once wide and ill and untamed like a savage fire devouring all the oxygen. And, slowly, it emerges from the old landscape, thin and crafty lines that take their first breath, spreading out like wings across an open field, preparing for flight into the sky.
But, the spreading still hurts. And, I must remember this feeling, this burning, this dull ache after the pain first begins to fade. Remember this and remember the time before when the red was much deeper and the lines much harder to trace, to follow, to find the love in, to get to the way in. Then, when words and anger and fear and sorrow bit like a wildfire that could burn me up if I didn't run fast enough. When edges and tips and tongue tore at the surface like a wild tragedy too deep to get up, to set in to scratch out, to massive to stuff down.
If I remember, I will stand a chance against this storm.
So, I will take these words in ink and pen from cuts and claws to craft the outline of the story we have begun to tell. That we have begun to draw all upon our arm as a testament of the ways we have already been, as a testament to the ways we wish to go, as a testament of the things we aim to be.
And I if I remember, I will stand a chance against myself.
5 Thought(s):
Your mastery of words remains impeccable. Seriously, Rali, I love this so much.
I really like how everything is so image-based. It's like reading long poetry.
Thank you. I have found that this flow of images like water spilling over floodgates is when my art is at its best. However, I still struggle with putting this same voice into my prose.
The dedication to the project seems to sap some of the life. But, perhaps it is a life that is not yet strong enough to thrive in adverse situations. I am trying to reinforce its thin sapling arms, though, in the hopes that it will one day grow into the tree I see it as in the edges of my mind, lending enough shade in the oppressive heat of the day and cover in the uncertain darkness of the night.
These may be very high hopes. But, stretch and stake it I will, despite.
Oak trees take years to sprout to their great height & beauty, taking the time to grow healthy roots underground. Nonetheless, its shade & fruit is a refuge at all stages of growth, offering life to other creatures.
The silver maple, however, is often planted in new neighborhoods because of its fast growth... offering the appearance of a well manicured home when in fact the the walls inside remain bare. Sadly, the silvers do not always fair well here in the midwest of severe summers & winters.
I know, as do others, you are an Oak even when you feel as small as an acorn. Keep treading water... the shore is close.
That is... if oak trees could swim.
Again, I say I am not a writer.
M,
You are always such an encouragement to me.
And, I love your metaphors with a deep, resonating, smiling sort of joy. Swimming oaks? It's utterly fantastic.
Thank you.
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