Afternoon Siesta

The creaks of the bed, the little wails it lets out when you get to wake up and walk away are the wails of my sleepless-ened soul. It pines to remain attached to the bedraggled dreams and hazily fudged sequences that play out themselves as realistic dream themes. Even though you can tweak it all, nothing compares to the real thing. I wouldn’t trade the chaos, the confusion and the disorder for even the most well blended painting in the world. After all, what makes a painting a masterpiece is its reality reflectivity index. The higher it is on that scale, the more real, the better. It is because getting balance and equilibrium is easy, but mimicking chaos and unrest with a degree of reality, that’s the tough part. The balanced equation is many a mathematician’s forte, but the riding on the theory of chaos requires grist and sheer soul.

The hard wailing winds outside my tightly clamped shut windows on a hard summer afternoon, trying hard to get in and shatter the glass dome of the afternoon siesta, enter the fabricated stories and strew away the delicately placed-into-a-pattern prop beads and mess with the heads and rustle the hair of the neatly drawn out dream cut-outs…you get the idea. It wants to monkey around with my painstakingly put together theme party and have fun. Fun, did I say? Isn’t that what I started out to do with my own ‘painstakingly’ put together party?  Maybe, there are other ways of having fun? Maybe the canvas sometimes looks for the paint to be splashed about haphazardly, to get messy out of turn, to let the paint drip and drool before it dries, no specifics, no shape or defining colour, no nothing. Just me and my fingers writing in the un-understood language of my soul…come on, lets open the doors and windows and let the monkeys in. let the mayhem begin.