The Undefined Painting

IN THE WILD

It is dark, and I have trouble staying dry. The sky is moody, and unheavenly; it growls, the clouds cry heavily. I walk cautiously: my paces are pre-calculated as I travel deep into the void of a misty, haunting forest. I am terrified and unbelievably shaken: the sky growls like a tyrannosaurus. I find a tree stump isolated from the towering trees; it rests on a soft, moist, colorful, bed of leaves. I inhale and exhale slowly - gasping with a sense of relaxation, thinking to myself: "This is just the perfect environment to delve into my imagination." I sit with my eyes fixed on the unembellished sky, fascinated with the stormy weather. Dark weather prompts dark thoughts... some of which I don't want to remember.

I began assembling my tent once the sky's cry rescinded to a sprinkle; it's roars became whimpers. I cinch the edges of the tent - using rope as cable, attaching the rope to woodblocks that were rooted deep into the earth's dirt. Rain causes dirt to become diarrhea. My mind is blank: I still cannot come up with an intriguing idea. An unmeasurable amount of time passes by... time that cannot be measured solely on my Seiko. The earth's mud becomes hard: it is as solid as playdough. I periodically drink from my cup filled with the sky's teardrops, and whiskey. I travel the elevated grounds: my ears pop as it is starting to become a little brisky. My drink is making me feel tipsy. But I needed to be completely inebriated to paint something unique. While rambling through my backpack, I find an edible antique. I forgot I had this... Long ago, my conscience told me to rid the addiction; I cannot let go, it frees my thoughts allowing me to accurately paint my minds' true depiction. I cannot let go as I promised too someday. I embraced my defiant nature: I was compelled to disobey. I knew one day the devil's candies would come in handy. I greedily ingested the zannies: it caused a derangement of my senses.

My vision intermittently went from clear to blurry, like the adjusting of the focus dial on binocular lenses. I sip and paint swiftly - passionately pressing my paintbrush against the canvas gently. It was soothing to be in solitude. One distraction can blow one's concentration; distractions can be windy, swaying the imagination. There is a common saying: "if you cannot explain it simply, you do not understand it well enough". I glance at my portrait: it was vague and described my thoughts dimly. I used to look at others' work of art and feel envy. Then, I developed my own style - embracing the artist that was always in me; multitudes I contain many.

My imagination becomes tinted once my state of delusion rescinded. Reality set-in preventing me from the ability to ponder anything splendid. My portrait did not convey any thoughts that I have intended. I wanted to paint without conformality: I needed a portrait to accurately illustrate my emotions towards my descendants. I vigorously tried to think... I could not make that fateful exit through writer's block. My heartbeat was audible but subtle, sounding more like a tic toc. I was terribly mistaken; the sound was not my heartbeat: it was my wristwatch. A mind without thought is like a farm without livestock, or even worse as I have constantly experienced during the years of my youth, Christmas in the absence of presents. During my childhood, our chimney was never one of Santa's rest stops. The only people that frequented our home was social services, and cops. Hunger increased. My trips to the kitchen decreased. The refrigerator held no food: just shelves and a freezer full of ice and freeze pops. Eventually, it led to me being stripped from my biological parents and into foster care. I stayed in state custody for the remainder of my teenage years: Foster parents... social workers could never find a suitable pair.

I became frustrated due to the memories. I abandoned my tent and stop painting. I raked my fingertips through my hair fiercely all the way down to my scalp. There is a mixture of flesh and my dark wooly hair under my fingertips. But I was perilously numb being the reason why I did not say ouch. Still no ideas flourish. I needed food for thought; my brain is malnourished. I go for a walk - walking thought the forest with a desperate desire to come up with an intriguing idea.

The sun glimpse, before becoming smothered by a dark towering cumulonimbus. Don't you hate it when the weather flips on you like a gymnast? The sky crackles and whips: my shoulders cringe. While running, I fall into a gravy filled puddle: my body's imprint was engraved in the muddy trenches. While the clouds aspirate, I become drenched by its' precipitation. The winds were pulverizing; I periodically lost my balance struggling against the air's resuscitation. I search for cover in a mode of desperation. I retreat, evading the storms devastation - hiding in a cave I find in the midst of the forest. I dwell there for countless hours, awaiting the storm's dissipation. A final flash in the sky photograph's the stealthy clouds; I came up with a picture in mind, but I could not commit it to memorization.

It abruptly stops raining; the storm dwindled to a drizzle after a while. I walk through the swampy forest with the pace of a prowl. While traveling back to my tent, I come across a squirrel vaping as it crawls from the burrows of a splintered log. In a state of denial, I smudged my wet wrinkly fingertips into the crevices of my eyes. "Was what I just seen reality? Or was it a wretched depiction of my imagination?" Everything in your environment is exaggerated: when you are heavily under the influence, logic perishes once reality is assassinated. I start to see double as if my pupils were lacerated. It was the hallucinogens that had altered my consciousness - intermittently rendering me visually incompetent. Besides the obvious motives for art such as: beautification, and expression of one's lucid imagination, art can also be used to vent. I become deeply inspired by hurt and recurring morbid thoughts. Thoughts are permanent: ideas are temporary. "All these trees! Where is paper when you need it!" I want to etch something literary. I search my immediate environment for things that I can use as a writing tool temporarily: I do not have traditional writing tools. So, I find a short thick branch in the wet prairies. I intended to etch my idea in the mud; the dirt was no longer mud. Therefore, I could not use the dirt as my library. It is dire that I return to my tent. I rush through the crippled forest. The skies slightly drip. I trip and hit my head on a tree stump. "What was that idea I had in mind?" No matter how hard I tried to recall my idea, I could not remember it! Once a clever idea runs away, it is highly unlikely that it will make a round trip.

The clouds finally quit spitting on me. The sky's persistent ooze felt like the tongue of a slobbering Saint Bernard - continuously licking on me. The climate is appeasing. Temperatures dropped a bit on the chilly side, but nowhere near freezing. I ignite a dry pile of branches and leaves - using the fire for heating. I look at my first draft, I was not content. My paintbrush trembles while painting with subliminal intent. I am illustrating something lament. I let my emotions flow: my eyes drip. Throughout countless ticks, the hour hand no longer limps, it is stuck between the Roman Numerals five, and six. It felt like I was only painting for about an hour. I look at my watch and compared it to the sky: it appears time has glitched. There is a saying: "There will be a time where your mind will take you to a higher plane of knowledge, but it will never be able to prove how it got there." Have you ever been so focused on something that you become unaware of where your mind went? I thought I was at home. I totally, forgot I was in a forest briefly residing in a tent.

The sun and the moon switch. The morning commences as the sun is followed by daylight like a trailer and its hitch. I look at my painting: I am content. My painting is now completed, prepared to be displayed to ladies and gents. For years, I have conformed my art to the likings of the world: it has made me filthy rich! I unstitched myself from the rules and freelanced what was in my soul. I wanted to do what was in my niche. My left hand was sweaty and slippery like silky sheets: it itches. Through this work of art, you can finally feel my grieving. If one shall glance at it for an extended duration of time you will not find it worthy of applause nor will it be visually appeasing - which leads me to clarify my point, perception can be misleading. What if an artist painted a picture to where the image itself can contrast what you primarily depicted it to be? Thought, is merely a sedative that seduces the imagination - inducing the mind to a state of believing, further leading your mind to become deceived. Of all the things we see, 75 percent of it we see, but only 25 percent is consciously received. Images are not always intelligible. Art is beautiful. In some cases, art is not pleasurable. Others may only have the ability to look at an image surface level, but you may be special. You may be one of the few with the acuity to see beyond art, while others look at a painting and its' hue interpreting it as abstract art, simply because they do not have a clue. My art made me famous. You may find it shocking that I am a multi-millionaire that finds joy in spending several days in a tent. Everyone needs their creative space. Nature in itself can remind you of just how human you are even though financially, you are considered part of the elite. For years, I have been trying to achieve this dream of becoming a famous artist. The years seemed infinite and impossible to count. How many awards have I received? I don't know. I have lost count. After decades of working from the sweat of my brow, I have illustrated many paintings one can hang on their walls and mount.

THE MUSEUM

At a museum, many spectators glanced at many paintings. One particular painting caught the attention of one out of many spectators: even though the other paintings had illustrious colors and were framed, they still were mundane. While glancing at the painting, one of the spectator's lighter flickered a withering flame. He unintentionally dropped his cigar causing the ceiling to rain. Everyone started evacuating the museum. He did not evacuate: he was so captivated by the portrait, he remained.

The colors on the painting were fainting, simultaneously causing the image to warp and change. He glances at the painting continuously without blinking. The painting illustrates a hidden face disguised as clouds. Dots were hanging below the bottom of the eyes like an inverted ellipsis. The nose is disguised as a handgun and a clip. The mouth consists of one lip smiling and one lip frowning. He sees a replica of two alluring splendid eyes. Within the dark pupils are stick figures: their hands are joined together. Within both pupils there is a solid red diagonal line which forms an avoid sign. On the face there is a tattoo: it spells the phrase, "No Evil Stare". A sudden blaze erupts in the ballroom. He awakens immediately from his prolonged stare. He realizes he must leave, LEAVE NOW! He runs out of the building just in a nick of time. Dark, ominous, oxygen suppressing clouds strangles the air.

The fire department arrives warring with the furious blaze. After a timely battle, the anguishing flames were extinguished: the water removed the flames' anguish. The only thing left on the roof sign were two letters: MU; but one can still determine the building used to be a museum, even though the sign displays broken English. The fire department departed but, the spectator and the painting were not parted. He sits on the museum's stone charred steps examining the painting. Something he did not see primarily see is distinguished. He realizes the letters in the words "No Evil Stare" are rearranged. The portrait portrayed something more negative. The words did not represent the grimace on the painting's face. When rearranged, the letters spells, "No relatives". He sought to find the artist who illustrated the painting. Perhaps, preserving the painting, will gain more value with age; it will be worth more at the time of trading.

THE ART FESTIVAL

One day, the spectator was walking down a narrow slippery street crowded with umbrellaed souls. There were detour signs: some roads were closed. The spectator halts at a bleeding light, awaiting the green glow. He proceeds - walking down the narrow street when its his time to go. Pedestrian traffic is toe to toe: it gradually flows, but the line is moving awfully slow. Everyone is awaiting to gain entry into the art show.

After waiting for nearly two hours, the spectator finally enters a beautifully architected building carrying a weightless duffel bag. He is briefly halted by security. They check his bag and let him go once they realized what he had in the bag was not a gun. He walks slowly, glancing at the walls ornamented with art, fanciful caricatures, and transfigured art. He pauses when hears a familiar hum. He looks around carefully and could not figure out where it was coming from. He walks, the hum gets louder. As he approaches a crowd of pedestrians, he smells a distinct odor of rum. He looks - swiveling his head left, then right. There were so many people passing by: he could not determine where the odor was coming from. He sees a man part from the crowd kneel down, placing a large amount of cash in the hands of a homeless person. He rushes near the man hoping he would also get a lumpsum. He comes face to face and looks at the man who displayed the act of generosity. He realizes the generous artist is his son. He looks continuously stunned. His son stares at the man with disgust. His father tries to talk to his son but, his son raises his palm in front of his father's face saying, "Leave! There is nothing to discuss". The artists' father walks purposefully, toward a large crowd of people. Everyone rushes towards the artist anxious to get his autograph. His father mows through the large cheering crowd and once again meets his son face to face. He reaches into his duffel bag and presents a painting to his son. He tries to sell his son the painting saying, "I did not see this painting featured in your gallery of art"? His son replies, "This is the painting I drew in the forest. Does it look like I am dumb?" The artist's father continues his tactics of treachery trying to convince his son into buying his own painting. His son was not convinced. He stood tall and erect and did not budge. He grabs his son around the waist, pretending to give him a hug. He digs in his son's pockets. His son shoves him away yelling "Stop It!" His yell catches the attention of security. Security escorts the artists' father out of the art festival. The man is as sly as a fox; he breaches through an unguarded point of entry. Being that security is short staffed, the perimeter could not be covered in totality. Besides, security personnel in general are paid low salaries. Would you be on high alert and have a heightened sense of morality if your job duties overwhelmed your salary? This subjects legal personnel to the acceptance of bribery. Low attention detail is one of security personnel's commonalities. The artists' father grabs a stone and creeps slithering his frail stature through a fence post. He hits an inattentive guard in the head with a stone bludgeoning the guard; his force was of an extreme lethality. He replaces the guards' clothes with his; he was able to re-enter the art show in uniformity.

The artists' father previous thoughts were to mend differences with his son. He is not aware the past cannot be undone. Sometimes, a heart houses a melancholy melody that is unsung. When pain festers inside, red hearts tend to become plums, causing people to become heartless and numb. While walking through the festival, he once again comes face to face with his son. He says, "We always shared the same creativity. I am as clever as you, in other ways". His son looks at his impersonating father with a prolonged gaze. His son says, "I did not forget what you put me through, nor have I forgotten where I came from. When I needed a helping hand, you did not think to lend me a thumb. You never believed in me. You and mom both constantly deprived me of my creativity ripping up my pictures. I remember when you both always tried to convince me that we come from a family of failure, poor education, and poverty, and if I thought I were going to be any different, I was delusional and dumb. You left me in a house that lacked food. I was so hungry I ate the cat's food, the dog's food, and then when there was nothing left, I licked the table ridding the table of crumbs. His son turned his back and did not give his father time to respond; he immediately walks away as soon as those words rolled off his tongue". His father goes into a deep sorrowful gaze. Everyone scatters after they hear a loud bang. The floor is painted with blood once his father redecorates his skull with a bullet from a gun.

THE END.

ON A DEEPER NOTE:

There is a reason for everything. Some look at a building thinking it was designed without reason and painted with a random color. Art and architecture are what differentiates one building from another. Even with a keen sense of sight, do we truly know what we are seeing? Images can contrast what our sense of sight is actually perceiving - a state to where our awareness is retreating, leading to an unconscious believing. Just because you see smoke does not necessarily mean something burning. Yes, something could actually be on fire - but smoke can simply be a heavy and dense fog. Just because someone appears to be chewing does not necessarily mean he is eating. In fact, the continuous chattering of the jaw could be because they are freezing. Just because someone is crying does not necessarily mean they are sad nor grieving. Crying could be tears of joy due to some unexpected blessing the have received. That blessing could something as simple as a woman finding out she is pregnant, as she was once told by her doctor, she is incapable of conceiving. That blessing can even be the manifestation of a dream, they once thought they were incapable of achieving.