Out of the Gutter Art

Tag: fantasy

  • The Kitchen Drawer, a short story

    The Kitchen Drawer, a short story

    Dreaming of daisies and butterfly gardens, I find myself running thru mazes and tunnels, sure there are blue skies somewhere above ground…

    How do I get there -Is it safe to come out now?

    Deep in the cellar of abysmal memories, I remember a guy who pretended to love me.

    Remember the father who left without leaving-a mother whose mothering I would attend to.

    The weather has taken a turn for the grey. Icky, foggy, similar to brain matter…if I just lie down for a minute, I will just rest here…

    …the dream begins…

    Whats for Dinner, Mom? Aw, carrion again?

    The girl stands in her yellow kitchen. Her husband will return soon. Boring old Jed. Why did she marry an accountant? She wonders at times if she ever mattered to the one she truly loved:

    The windows need cleaning, the tea has grown cold-cold like the heart, cold like the hearth.

    Cold, blue steel-a dead weight in the hand; Cold, dead stone in the heart of a man.

    ( Sing mockingbird, sing your bright song , sing of such joy can you bring me along?

    Top of tall tree, float over hill, please let me join you, oh sing, if you will!

    Remind me of meadows the smell of fresh hay : we’ll gallop, we’ll frolic , we will dance, we will play!

    Gentle moonbeams gather far over our heads, a blanket of bluebells will cover our bed.

    hands needing holding…

    Hold me till morning with kisses on lips and hands needing holding in the tenderest grip.

    My head lays upon your ever-strong chest, “You’ll never leave me-no not like the rest.”

    “I will not let you”, I scream in my pain, ” you will regret ever straying again!”

    “Let darkness fall- you will not run :You’ll know my rage from the end of this gun…”)

    ****************************************************************************

    Yes, maybe I did matter, the girl muses…sighing, she wraps the revolver gently back up and tucks it deep under the kitchen towels, bumping the drawer shut with her hip.

    solar bipolar art lamp, 2022. sold.

  • The Hurrier I Go…

    The Hurrier I Go…

    THE BEHINDER I GET

    How true, how true that Pennsylvania Dutch saying is. I squander my art endeavors, rushing from this deadline to that, frazzled, befuddled and unsatisfied. That may be what drove Van Gogh insane, the constant turmoil to do better. I am making the presumption that perhaps the rapid cycling Bipolar Disorder that I enjoy(!) was somehow effecting him, too. Many artists share this mental illness, I know that The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation has held Insights Art Exhibitions, to establish a permanent collection of works by artists who are effected by this disorder. I am proud to be one of the Founding Artists of that collection, and proud to know these beautiful people who have done so much to further research in the field.

    Three years, three works of my art in this collection. It blows my mind, just as my art has been blowing peoples minds since I was a child. How easy I forget, and wallow in my mire. That is part of this disease also. The dark days, when no amount of internal dialogue can push me out of bed, out of the bleak landscape in my head. Do you think Van Gogh, or Matisse, or Dali had such dark times? What about Francis Bacon, Pollock, Warhol ?

    Then why do I feel so alone in my efforts? Yes, I’m sure the worldwide pandemic has a dampening effect, on artists as well as everyone else. Perversely, I also treasure the isolation it affords me. No one can chastise my late hours, or visit to be aghast at the paint on my floor, on my walls, on me. I think I need to get out of the house more, go walk on the beach, visit a park. All things strange and alien nowadays. I know this will pass, I have been in counselling and under proffesionals care for my Bipolar Disorder and PTSD for nearly 30 years, I take my medication every single day, because I have been all the way down into the abyss and made friends with the monsters lurking there. Only to find out that they all wanted me dead. I don’t want to be dead. I can fully understand why I did, because this pain is all encompassing. I feel each cell screaming at me to give it relief.

    Not too happy, guys…

    The only thing I can do is paint myself into a painless reality, a utopia of color, a sweet dream of lavender and silk, a field of gold. When sleep won’t come I will disappear into the garden that flows out of my pen, winding its way into sweet fantasy-lands where no one is mean and there is no such thing as loneliness…