White washed.

Theme Week 8: From Small to Big, From Big to Small

Lifting my eyes to the blank canvas, I can see the weaving of the threads that construct the solid surface. I can smell the clean white stretches over the pine of my eisel. I can smell the tangy bitter smell that comes with acrylic paint, and my eyes tear at the mere sight of the brilliant hues. They sit in their own little mountains, their own little worlds, these dancing globules of color and light and liquid and brightness. The seem to reflect the light of the sun and everything that is alive.

I close my eyes and let an image form in the still blackness of my closed view, and lift my arm to dip the bleached horsehair bristles into the thick, wet oblivion. I open my eyes and see a deep violet dripping from the fibers, and slowly draw my mind into life, in dimension, in feeling.

Various colours make their way and blend their cool and hot temperature throught the image, bringing out a fire that has rested for far too long.

A friend of mine once told me to take every little ounce of hatred I held for my life, the people in in, and the people out of it, and dip it in paint, and smear it all over the place. They told me to let myself loose on a wide stretch of canvas, in the deepest, darkest, and most brilliant way that I could. I haven't quite gone that far yet.

My mom bought me a Lucas Proffessional painting set, with a full set of acrylic paints in the most beuatiful shades I'd ever painted with. It came with a french eisel, a wonderful set of horsehair brushes, and many other amazing things, that I never thought I would own.

I painted my walls with those colours and I painted wood and I painted lovers and animals and superheroes, but what I had never painted bits of me. I think I was always afraid to see what would come out.

Painting is now something that can be therapeudic to me, I mostly paint when I am angry. Anger is my weakness, there is so much of it lying under my skin, in a way for everyone and everything, but mostly for the fact that I cannot be in control.

Therapy is overrated in a way, I think. Psychologists sit you in a chair, probe you with questions, and than declare you crazy when you so much as express an emotion, and administer medications with side effects that wouldn't get Evil Kineval on the boat.

Doctors in general are like that now, the whole medical industry isn't about helping people anymore, it's about money. Physicians give out pills left and right, hell, they even give you free ones, because they're paid good money to do it. "This might make you sterile, but hey! You're heartburn won't bother you too much, except it might give you a silent uncurable form of stomach cancer! But I can assure you, that only happened to 200 of the 3500 lab rats we tested it on".

Everyuthing is about money. You can't live with it, you can't live without it, it won't buy happiness, and it won't make you feel better. It'll buy you a good strip-tease, or a dirty night with a french prostitute, but it won't pay for the long-term STD damage.

posted by Kasey @ 6:47 PM