A Portrait in Time

As average as this evening may seem, there is panic lurking beneath the surface. How can life continue so normally, is the world not aware that part of the world has ceased to exist. A major pluck on the heartstrings part of the world. Romance, requited love, just love. All now erased from my heart and the heart of existence. Fake and phony after all. An Impression of the reality of what it takes to step into the arena of commitment. This I acknowledge knowing that I too stepped away. I too had closed the aorta that surrendered to love. So here is the opportunity. For a whole new story to unveil. But who could not be sad at the loss of a rear formula of love. Of a classical landscape once embellished with a sheltered nook and a picnic, now an asphalted pit stop. Lost of all the archetypal offerings of love, to be benign of expression. Like the culture of love had escaped completely. No catalyst left to offer a tickle to any fancy. So into the desert of aban...

Days left. Four exactly. Then the Judge will wield his hammer and change will be logged in legal documents. We will walk away in separate directions. I have spent this last weekend looking at our little house. Cleaning and removing the bits of him that have remained unstirred in the last 6 months. A hollow emptiness with dust sculpting the hemispheres of the undisturbed. I have been waiting for him to blaze through here in his furious style. That will still happen, but at lease all his things are in one spot. Less obvious, boxed and organised, that was always what I did well, anticipate & prepare. Somehow I wasn't prepared for him leaving, this time. But I was absent and had left a long time ago. I had summarised that I loved the painter and couldn't live with the man. It runs deeper that this. Deep as a gulch you could get lost and trapped in. Trapped for almost 13 years.. 13 unlucky for some. Not me. My spirit was no longer free in his world. I...

How do you break a pattern that is so ingrained that the threads of connection still hold their torque even when unravelled. How too, do you overcome the formula of attraction to those patterns, and not spoon up to the next familiar warm spot. I am ready to unravel. I am so ready to move from this space to unspiral from the infliction of adaption over the last 12 years. To accept anything less would be to deny the reality that has.... driven the point home, and then made its point again and again. Knot after knot. Knot after knot he has pulled the looseness of my string and taught me what is his hold on my reigns. Conditioning by the alpha one. Conditioning to my desperate need to keep him. To be needed. To provide a platform that makes up for all my insufficiencies that he is oh so happy to point out. There is no place where we meet where the land is flat. There is always a canyon between the way we understand. From my point of view and reality and truth of his co...

On our second year in the Wild West I took a trip without the painter, back to the Sequoia's where we used to live. It was an epic journey, extended by fleeing Los Angeles within 10 hours of getting there. Thus extending my time in the mountains by 4 days. It was prime time for my architipal journey. The solitary mind was flowing script and having visions that were then fulfilled. The swiftest of which was manifesting a bear within an hour of having the day dream while sleeping in a meadow on some unknown hill that beaconed me off the road. Yep it was one of those adventures. A time of independence and fulfillment that was an alixier that I was yearning for. During this trip, among other things I purchased on old postcard from the Louvre of Hans Holbein's portrait of d'Anne de Cleves. A rather osteir portrait of a woman, hands clenched, rings on most fingers, and an indifferent look on her face. I remember flicking through the cards, regarding it, and then ...

Everybody stops six feet from the edge. For a while I did too. Corralled by the expectations of those around me that were reinforcing my place and lasooing my wild ideas. But the edge was tempting. The idea of a complete alteration from the plateau of my current existance soon became the desired alternative. The first time I saw the Grand Canyon while others gawked mezmerized at the whole panorama, I was the one on my belly head crained over the rocks. There was a deep deep canyon, so vast and barron, and there at the bottom a tiny green vein that runs the whole way through. Like observing from a cloud the world so far removed down below. When I met the painter I started to explore the fringe. We left the world of the mundane, and drove as far away from the city.. That is the place I have dwelled and existed for several decades, and it is the place that I am now, suddenly unteathered by the restraints of a conditioned world. The blueprint has been ripped up. The found...

From my astrologers point of view. Mars in my 12th house ( along with Sun, Jupiter, Mars, Mercury ) means all my expression and anger is internalized - hence my love of writing& passionate angry men... and thus The Painter was the expression of much of my internalized forces. .... if you get that kinda thing. I really do. Especially after 12 years of a little Biosphere of my own - of two cosmic forces.. obviously not quite coming together. OR taking 12 years and considering the option... or in his mind.. at this time .. which may not be his mind.. 12 years pretending. Taking our combined charts, it was all forecast. Trouble brewing, powerful planets challenging the status quo. Things that could have stayed subtle and hidden become the catalists for deconstruction. Naturally I grasping on this as reasonable explaination for a change I didnt see comming. Powerless to it all, I watch my beautiful sandcastle wash away. Twelve years of heart matched alli...

To be or not to be, what can be fully understood, life is much more complicate. To complicated, the example of oil on canvas can never portray. Oil on canvas is the offering of the static and beautiful the overlooked or unappreciated simplicity of composition and environment. I talk of course from the view of a painters wife. Someone who deals with the day to day issues of life, and the structure and support of a family and business. So life is more complexed for me. Caos is some fluid productive state. So to see the painter return from his day on the hillside all contemplative, without time for dishes or the chop wood carry water necessities of life I can be frustrated and his ungrounded reality. But then I touchdown on his world in the form of solid encapsulations of his meditation in oil. Far reaching from my point of hormonal surfing, but I welcome every glimpse, every smudge of paint. So blooming meaningful sometimes it takes me weeks or months to truly understa...