Untitled Piece

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Untitled Piece

Post by CrimsonClaret on Thu Jan 25, 2018 8:11 pm

My brush, of unusually rough horse’s hair, licked the dry and parched lips of the shallow paper front my gaze.I had been painting for just over an hour, and managed to reflect a broad retrospect of my view. Red traced and swallowed it’s desirable image, reminiscing of pleasurable nostalgia too quaint to remember but proud enough to believe. It was like the summer’s own true lynching of the saturated sunsets, and the clouds that fished above so effortlessly to observe the horrifically pure sight; that memory, that recollection of favorably unknown yet quenched discoveries, was quite the same as my ink drying beneath my touch. I’d even set them both akin to gratification found in a dog’s kill and the arousing sight that blood produced. The horrifically pure discovery of grafted skin hanging limply in the dark.
Of course, I had always known how raw it was to pleasure the sensibilities of something that could no longer breathe, or something that hadn’t ever the luxury to do so. From revere premonitions-- albeit their short winded truths-- I had traced my bizarrely curious lens I had on the world; a filter that cracked beneath the bleached hides of rabbit fur my mother would set out to dry in the sun. It was then did she still comb her slender hands through my arid scalp and whisper harsh words beside my head. My mother had spoken of a wealthy salvation through acceptance, and honesty, and brutality that coarsed the better journey beneath my skin. This salvation could only be peaked through the macabre and freedom that death allowed. She spoke of it as state of consciousness and a governing body with you at all times; you had to be ready for fate to accept yourself, for autonomy to kiss your body and your blood run stale in the stomachs of creatures around. It was at this ripe and young age did my mother meet her release, blinded by a doe’s antlers under circumstances I’ll never understand, and grinded by a coyote’s teeth. I, at the time, hadn’t appreciated the sore and tender heart at the center of her purgatory. I instead sought for a Master to follow, to become a disciple of unfavorably sour tastes and scab my feet over endless mountains.
Adoring the pain my mother relinquished was foreign to myself, and I cowered under sweat and fear of the importance that relied in acceptance. Of course I healed through her words. And I still walk and have this beating muscle pounding away beneath my surface, but at some moment or another I saw my mother’s philosophy in the tracks I make.
My paper was adorned with another several bruises and shades of a pale palette before I set my brush in the bucket beside me. Washed away by the murky water, I watched my brush shift back and forth as the brownish-blue provoked it’s wooden handle and replicated the waters ahead. The day was cool and humid, although the trees-- stirred by autumn’s breath-- bothered the area deeply. And while leaves scattered across the ground and skimmed the waters around, I saw how a figure, naked with supple limbs, walked out of the energetic things and paused.
It’s silhouette, curving from a stern forehead to protruding breasts and a firm chest, continued motion through the winds and looked onward to the lake ahead. I momentarily grabbed back my brush and roughly outlined over my canvas it’s feminine shape and polite promenade through nature’s playground. It walked with such strife, with no idle step or irreverent choice, until it looked worriedly over the lake’s coast and dropped its arms to two plump sides. It fell on nimble knees before crashing into the water, a breezy head erupting against an extended rock.
For a moment I stopped painting, staring numbly at the ink-splotched thing in front of me. I hadn’t the faintest idea of what to think, perspiration gathering on my brow and lip as I dug deep into my pockets. I never chose to think, but rather did so at a pace I treated as mandatory. Thinking, among other things, led to this cavernous acknowledgement of self worth, pity, and anger, but also made for my creations; my deaf and speechless stills of what I could only say were lively and prosperous pictographs of the nigh and uncontrollable. Like the seasons: dripping not choice, but chores and the animals they served, and the animals they didn’t.
I still watched as black faded into the rippling paper waters and feigned shallow trees around, a figure close to death perched in the middle bent down to ready an open skull of wind-ridden matter and harsh thoughts.
I pulled a torn shred of sand paper from my jeans and placed its rigged edges against several waves of clotted ink, spreading them apart to create a lavish texture bleeding at pronounced regions. It was a vocation for a greater feeling that stirred my stomach and dilated my pupils at the cost of excitement. I couldn’t explain what I felt or why, but it was of extraordinary passion. Like a sensual ballet whose lead moved as rough as a porcelain doll, until the music cast her forward over spitting coals and roasted iron. In fact, my eyes were dancing the same tune, performing pirouettes in front of a rounded mirror until they pivoted past broken glass; my eyes, that hummed as wildly as the boughless giants around until a final sacrifice set them free through my drooling black and colorless lens.
But this was short lived, as a bird’s choral whistling spoke lyricism far too irreverent from my own, and too mild mannered from a fox’s trotting bushels away from being distracting. Of course, the worst it had done was disrupt my thinking and focus my manners anyhow. Oh, how lazy my thinking had become as the days grew longer and the fog thicker, stretched further and further over the night’s spinning wheel until its hem broke loose and traveled closer from yonder than it had when outspoken.
“Anyone ‘ere?” Spoke a queer voice, in a way that sounded like a hymnal calling forth a ceremony that I wasn’t welcomed to. I paused and took a weighty breath in, yawning quietly while crouching down behind my easel. It’s long and tender legs dug deep into the ground and hid the better half of my body behind interweaving supports, although my brush was still lying limply afoot my canvas, and the undried ink showed no remorse to inform of my presence. The sound of brittle leaves crunching under the weight of heavy boots grew closer, until I could make out the appearance of a man dressed in scotched black pants and an overcoat--
with unfashionably intimidating large buttons plastered over a lean body twice as big as yours. You’ll know it’s him when he comes knocking on the summer’s ground, spitting back at the birds.
I stood up and brushed clean my wool and ashen chesterfield coat, licking bits of twigs off the ground. I quietly nodded my head in acknowledgement before stretching my hand out.
“You’re him, right?” My voice was raspy and uneasy, but I knew for certain who he already was. He was a man who owned a nameless caranvasary up north, and we were to call him the Keeper.
“Y’eh. And you’re…”
“Mhm.” We shared a brief glance before heading down a trail east of the lake ahead, past quivering cedars and colossal pines.


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