I had a vision of a painting of a sun. A painting that I want to create someday. I was thinking of artists, of all kinds, but especially writers, who seem to feel or think, or want, or find that melancholy attitudes are synonymous with the expression of their talent, or brooding is part of the process. But I’m happy. I can’t write when I’m depressed or angry. I like being happy. I don’t relish in the moments when life is fucked up. It hurts too much. I can’t create from there. Not immediately anyway. Does that make me a lesser writer? I’m not an alcoholic (though I do love the taste of chocolate wine and have jokingly called it writer’s assistant, but it normally services to put me to sleep). I’m not on drugs. I don’t even like to take pain killers unless absolutely necessary (cramps). Aside from my many stupid ass mistakes, I’ve had and am having a pretty good life. I don’t like to read sad shit. I don’t like to see it. I try to stay as blissfully ignorant as possible about what happens in the world (which has proven very difficult since I am very inquisitive and love learning just for the sake of understanding and knowing things). As much as I dislike people, I still love them. As much as I hate the things people do to each other, I still see good in the world. The stereotypical drunken nights of an American author are not mine. Not to say I don’t have drunken nights, but they usually don’t end in any kind of creativity. They usually end in tough sleep and rough hang overs.
I don’t know what the fuck point I’m trying to make anymore. I think it was that I’m an artist that’s not typically sad. Anyway back to the vision. I see this beautiful yellow. About five shades of it. Darkest in the middle and fading into near white at the edges of the painting, with streaks blazing like the sun’s rays. I see me pulling the paint from the middle and watching it dissipate as I create the illusion of glowing brightness. I see it so clearly and I’m afraid that I’ll never have the opportunity to paint it. Then I think, I need to alter my life so that I can make that painting. I have to rearrange my thinking, so that I can grow into a person that would be in the position to either have a friend with studio space, or that I can rent studio space, or that I can have a space in my home for all things crafty (Run along sentence; run on!). Because, this painting must be done in a studio. On a floor. Using my hands and body as the brush. I want to be the painting. I want to sink into the yellow. I want to feel the sun all over me. Not desert sun. Not that kind of heat. South Carolina in September sun. Georgetown, coastal, in autumn, sun.
I want to make that painting.