Be careful of falling in love with your own success and the admiration that it appears to give you. It is the oldest of traps! The future self that you are daily making a pathway for may be wrought by an imposter. The clothes on one’s back may seem changed but those shoulders holding them up are just a tad bit lower. Yet you can be assured that without a doubt that the devil is always back at home waiting for your return. That animated ghostly wax effigy haunting the premises daily and at night. Humanity slowly becoming a distant echo behind your outside door that’s nightly barred. The vital notion of continued industry on your own behalf coming to a rusty halt. No need to throw one’s self upon that distant community’s sense of funeral pyre! It is far harder to believe in something long desired from one’s brittle heart than to amass the benefit of too many material riches. Though this society’s masters would have its member’s believe otherwise. The constant war of social mores of the current moment continuing on. All the soft shouldered seductive ideas leaning towards thoughts solipsistically posed as feminine an empty choral. Such mistrust may be unbecoming? But reliably formed from too many years of bad experiences. Yet it still is impossible to give up to the promise of the hunt! Or turn away from its persistently lingering dream. No confusion in continuing once again as before, in following along in the wake of that dimly lit flickering torch.
That five pointed star glowing in the distance of a dark horizon illuminating that tiny unsuspecting corner immersed in an unrelenting darkness of the night. Something wrong with its glowing singular presence lodged so solidly in the direct path of the approach of another lackluster holiday season. Out of place like an unwanted penniless interloper seeking to play it as a bad replacement for Santa.
A group of us gathered about the oil painter to watch him apply tonal grays to the shadows growing slowly in the foreground. The elongated pattern of a makeshift fence cast forth shadows caused by the inference of a sun projecting light from somewhere off camera just behind. The angle of view of the the imaginary audience resting on high as if taken from the top of a ladder. A sinister feeling of an unexplained drama taking place just out of sight above the top of the canvas. This simple area upon wooden stretcher frame white duck almost as tall as a grown man. The artist methodically applying more subtleties of shading while simultaneously speaking about the theory behind his own technique. Some in the surrounding throng of onlookers chattering respectfully quiet about these beginning expounding the own views of what the amorphous shadow’s metaphor really represents relating a mental landscape of brutal vengeance wrought by unnamed villager taking marauding mountebanks to task by sawing them in half.
“The religion of science, as well as those who are willing to sacrifice existing society for their personal glory, aiding its accumulation of the sake of an ever greater degree of power as fit substantiation. Demanding freedom in their demonstration of dangerous experiments taunting unseen powers without any consideration of the untoward side effects that might be summoned from the unknown in terms of an irrevocable unstoppable consequence.”, the artist’s voice rang out over the low drone of the surrounding crowd.
There was a fierceness about the artist. A hatchet-like sense of external continence elicited a stern coolness by others about his presence. Something that he had probably been meticulously groomed over the years as a defense from that persistent feeling of weakness that too many others had taken advantage of in his formative years. A hardness that cut through a swath of surrounding humanity like a dull rusty blade so that he might be safe from confrontation with any that thought themselves as natural predators. Though the dregs of the lower end of society that he struggled amidst still managed to throw themselves across the path of his ever watchful silence. These interlopers aware no doubt that their own faulty egos needed preening before harshly proclaiming themselves before him as gate keepers. This wasn’t the sort of man to take these experiences lightly.
The usefulness of his talent in portraiture in terms of common trade of accurately rendering a human likeness was acceptable. And on occasion even gratuitously acknowledged. But only as far as the tenure of his service would be required. Then from that point further on than the sketches completion he was promptly forgotten as more than another passing individual. An oddity that popped up unexpectedly and regarded as if he had never possessed a personality at all? The dreams he portrayed upon the canvass matched that same sense of suppressed wrath. Horizons of empty avenues and mile after mile of lonely travel through the vast stretches of flat land of anonymous darkened gray cityscapes. Time ticking away nightly in the back of a solitary head suggesting that a pending plane reservation had come due. And that in the course of some obsessive abstraction, the date of departure has been misplaced or more likely to forgotten. The resulting penalty weighing heavily over the dreamer’s head being left without resources to return to a nondescript location loosely referred to as home. A mythical place just as equally empty as the current one. Barren hollowness significant of a failing mind losing all its memories and connections to simple geography.
The great herd of humanity about him that the inferences of his image was shepherded along to a new horizons leaving him in his own derelict ruin. Their presence foreign to the evidence he presented to a resemblance of a world that his instincts maintained. The semiotic instructions forwarded by him as a final gift by way of his diligence. And duty wasted upon faces already emptied of regard for his craft. It had always been thus. He felt as if he was part of a strange species born in a locale that operated out of time and space. Other wanderers of a similar passing spirit attracted to him for a time. Yet after a brief sojourn moving on. Perhaps he was just unawares of perpetual habitation in some mythical place that the ancient Greek had conceived? Hades! A place where eternally shadows wander within dark scarcely defined circumstances. Unsure of any sense of earthly purpose. Entities that had somehow at the last moment recklessly squeezed themselves upon Charon’s barge and aeon ago. But now served as a fully spent unusable implement fully out of place? And yet someone who clung to a singular reason to continue the hope for the light of a vast eternal emptiness that lingered about surreptitiously in every place.
Society was an unwavering anvil where ever it remained. One earth or in Hell. A place where, blow after blow, one was hammered into something even farther than unfashionable and hopelessly distant from that type that one had been originally taught. Life’s experience being no reliable batten to deflect this rain of inevitable blows as they slammed down upon a meager existence taking yet another awful turn towards further diminishment.
“Scottish music!” That was the key in the dream. The identity of those held in custody that spoke in a tongue so foreign that for all intents and purposes it might have simply been grunts and groans. This discovery was not his own alone but broadcast upon the FM radio program as it rattled through cultural themes.
The narrator began again, “He began to suspect her. Suspect her of being not what she claimed to be in her overconfident self-serving tone.”