One Last Dance (Painting&Poem)

One Last Dance

One last dance –
hands pressing my soul to the ups and downs of hard desire
on a rollercoaster ride.

One last moment of pretense that I am loved and admired.

Don’t you think I don’t know it is long over,
never started,
never bloomed;
and your knife of fake will pierce my heart-sap,
send it to the abyss’ floor.

Whatever.
Fade into the night if you must.

Just let me steal one more moment,
one more swirl,
one more quiver
before the final bow.

Blue Moon (painting)

Blue MoonBlue Moon (by KW.)

Her light is made of silver and softness,
the blue as much a part of her as the red.
Her beauty a secret made of night,
touching sleeping fingers with her gentle fingers.
I turn my face to her light.
Moon, shine on me as I drift.
Hold me in your loving arms
and carry me to my dreams.

 

I was pretty much down for the count at the beginning of last week as the post before this gives witness. Then some awesome people came along, some of them complete strangers, some dear friends. They put hooks and knobs into the walls of the deep, dark hole my psyche had tripped into accidentally by offering warm words and hugs. The morning after the post I woke up and found a poem left at my virtual doorstep. KW apologized for it, because he usually only writes fiction. For me however it was one of the best things that could happen.

As another friend put it: “Loneliness is such a danger. It’s strange right, because we are introverts and retreat from the world to some extent. And yet, we are our own worst enemy because when we are alone the sounds in our heads are so much harder to block out.”

I retreat because it is easier for me that way. But then I feel lonely. I keep this emptiness inside me in check with the art, I work on and use to express myself and ideas that are important to me. Then loneliness suffocates my creativity and suddenly there is – nothing.

The poem – it sparked something immediately and a new painting was born. Hence, it was beautiful.

Death and Life in a Square

Death and Life in a Square, acrylic on canvas 160 x 160

I had this article coming for a long time already. Some thoughts are like the taste of spoilt milk in your morning coffee. You just can’t get rid of them though they do nothing to improve your day, to say the least. But now that I write it, I am not sure I will ever publish it. We’ll see.

So, are you ready for me to have your coffee rotten? Have you ever thought about suicide? I mean in some cultures suicide is a most honorable thing. To make that clear, I am not talking about suicide bombings, martyrs, promised virgins etc. as this is murder and clearly horrible, leaving nothing but ruins. But i.e. the Norse believed that Walhalla can be entered in only three ways: death in battle, death during childbirth and suicide.

Saying that makes it clear that I thought about suicide; even as an option. I did a lot of times, starting in school. I was the ideal prey for any bully, inside out a total misfit, helplessly caught in the spin cycle of human interactions and emotions that others seemed to navigate easily while I understood math, physics, chemistry and even the syntax of sonnets.

I was too curious to leave. Much like my cat – hind legs and tail shivering, but the nose stretching out further and further until the fur threats to rip – I approached the world. It is beautiful. It is cruel. Like a giant knitting pattern everything is interwoven. And then there is me.

They say it all gets better. Well, I am still a loose thread, turning up here and there. It’s hard. I celebrate and struggle. That’s what life is like when art has caught you, but you are not out there to shine. And on the bad days, those that start with spoilt milk in crappy coffee, the thought is in the back of my head: It wouldn’t make a difference, if I died right now. Hardly anyone would notice my death, as hardly anyone does notice what I do in my life.

This might be true, if everything weren’t interwoven. We all came into this world in the same way. We all share the same genes. This makes it hard to take down one of our own, as much as this one death might be justified and necessary to safe the whole. And though I don’t believe in rebirth or resurrection or afterlife, I came to the conclusion that genes are not all we share.

Nature isn’t like humans, it doesn’t waste a thing. Why would it waste the most unique of all things, the human mind? The idea is much like the idea of Carl Jung’s collective unconscious. Everything we experience, everything we learn, every inch we grow above what we were, when we started, goes down in this pool to be shared by the generations to come.

Why spoil the pool with doubts and fears and gloomy thoughts before my time, when there is still potential to learn? Better is relative. But that’s the reason to struggle even unnoticed. Everyone counts.

The sun is high.
The light is bright.
The summer’s days were plenty.
And suddenly in all of this a rose drops its petal.
 

At beauty’s peak and wisdom’s height
it fades in bloody teardrops.
In summer’s joys the winter urges,
we are but this play’s props.
 

Yet, like a tree our roots are deep.
They drink the tears of flowers.
And from them grows the winter’s warmth and summer’s shade,
spring’s green and the autumn’s colorful showers.

Death and Life in a Square, acrylic on canvas 160 x 160 - Detail of ruin

Death and Life in a Square, acrylic on canvas 160 x 160 - Detail of bodies

Death and Life in a Square, acrylic on canvas 160 x 160 - Detail of Leaves


Death and Life (Poem)

The sun is high.
The light is bright.
The summer’s days were plenty.
And suddenly in all of this a rose drops its petal.

At beauty’s peak and wisdom’s high
it fades in bloody teardrops.
In summer’s days the winter urges,
we are but this play’s props.

Yet, like a tree our roots are deep.
They drink the tears of flowers.
And from them grows the winter’s warmth and summer’s shade,
spring’s green and the autumns colorful showers.

Smalltalk on Thresholds

Life on the Threshold, acrylic on canvas 115x180

I have problems with small talk. The whole concept of chatting to pass time with something both parties are not fully interested in, if at all, stays outlandish for me. By now I developed a strategy other than just keeping silent. I wait for key words that allow me to fill in real information or some of my adventure stories. Stories work better than information on most occasions.

I think my lack of appreciation of small talk derives from the fact that I can’t read mimic or body language or tone. I guess in small talk this underlying layer of the unsaid is what is really important. I worked on that too. I read up on psychology. I try to trust my intuition more than my overly analytical mind. But more often than not I am still at a loss; especially with men. I don’t realize a flirt until shortly before a flirter jumps at me, what they usually don’t do but stop long before probably frustrated.

Anyone surprised when I say, interaction with other humans frightens me? Hence, my main strategy remains to avoid contact. Yet, that isn’t satisfying either, as on the other hand I am highly curious and longing for the feeling of belonging and sharing. As I say in this picture:

 Drawn by the music to sway in the rhythm, desperately waiting for the bite.
Gravitated to the reclusiveness of the night.
Desert, city, anything in between.
I am late – always; constantly ahead of my time.
Yet never there.
Given: I am the impossible paradox,
the spring that came after autumn equinox.
Residing on thresholds,
I am the stranger between worlds.

Life on the Threshold, acrylic on canvas 115x180 - Detail of party on left side

Life on the Threshold, acrylic on canvas 115x180 - Detail of Chicago by night on the right

Life on the Threshold, acrylic on canvas 115x180 - Detail of woman in red on the right side


[I met a man.] (Poem)

Faprn a||b -> b;snmx
Lsjra; ~ x ~ fsp;ane

What do you say?

nfel[smr”nfo jfena[erj jf;
‘ekrmnfpnm jfpn; mphh grr
Jf;sznfn}nfb kdnf{fn

yeah sure, but…??

R;cnm ep’”ZFn;nfo iehr;anb cskdhf
fjfkbg erln.d;jap ruqpo;k ndlfh
dlnflfbs djvbarherj ;sjbe8o6ytajcflih wyf
dnfen ekjfeh ewj;ojsd[v nfjdfb

What???

dnf jeroj  ljd ;nkfb
Nfdn qqwbdbfkj mmmm
Nehbaljfrei nflwhb
Jefhwrnbkashehnflhrewrh
Nfdlfn ejrejr fkehrn rnhfm

Please?????

jfefn kewhrpjlns w;poea;jfldf fnrth
Fewjnsln ljflnljfw
Nfslfnlfs
Fm
Mfejfng kefnlws fn
Kf;fgsl lejbal|||| freo” ___

Sorry, but I don’t understand.
[I met a man.]

 

Identity (Painting)

acrylic on canvas 160 x160

Identity by Aviva Brueckner, acrylic on canvas 160 x 160

I wasn’t more than a little fledgling when my grandmother – my father’s mother – died. She’d infected Hepatitis around the time of my birth and died of liver cancer about six or seven years later. Perhaps the cancer originated in the pancreas as she developed diabetes in between. Not important. She was in her early sixties.

It was the first time I was confronted with the concept of death. My parents shielded my brother and me from witnessing the last stages of decay of the human body before life ends. But they took us to the funeral service. I remember I cried because my aunts did and I am always been empathetic. OK, I am also an easy crier.

Yet the point is, I don’t remember crying so much about the loss of my grandmother. Her death seemed normal to me. From my perspective she’d been old. Old people died, just like babies were born.

Today I am thirty five and still feel like I haven’t even finished my initial 360 degree turn to figure out where I am at. My dad is now his mother’s age when she died. Do I think it would be alright if he died? Hell no! I don’t even like to put the words ‘death’ and ‘my mother’ in the same sentence. And my maternal grandparents, who are well in their seventies, can’t go either, because they are not finished yet here.

Finished – with what? An easy answer would be living. But even if we all grew old as Methuselah or die at a young age, we are finished living the moment we die. So, there is to be more to it than just living as hard as this is already.

There is something that gives us a purpose, a cause. It’s not the same for everyone. It’s probably not even just one possible cause, since we can put the pieces we are together to many shapes like a Tangram puzzle. But there is something beneath the apparent chaos, a pattern that we are. Because without such a thing no time given to us is long enough, and all time is a waste.

If I started now to forget who I was, anyway
I would still be better than I am today.
Because I knew.
What?

That life hands you not only limes to make lemonade from them.
No, it yields as well an assembly of odd threads to you
so you get knitting.

It’s to become a unique pattern,
a thrilling, intricate, awesome storyline.

If I want it to be,
because it is my identity.