To good to be true
The excitement of the previous evenings activity is still coursing through my veins, withholding sleep I so desperately need. I glance at the clock: 2:00 am. I'm going to be zombiefied at work today, best to make sure my morning espresso is a triple shot!
*
Circus clowns surround me whilst strains of Bach's 'Toccata and Fugue' emanate menacingly from an indeterminable location, a cloaked figure approaches and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end. I'm suddenly blinded by a bright light, but, as my eyes adjust I can start to make out features on the cloaked man's face, he seems familiar somehow...
*
BOOM! I feel my body fling itself bolt upright. Dazed, my brain not having caught onto the fact that it's awake yet, I let my eyes wander across to the window, just in time to see a streak of lightning light up the night sky like it was day time, 'When did I doze off?'. I look over at the clock: 4:00 am. 'Great! 2 hours till my alarm goes off, well, I guess there's no point going back to sleep now.' I walk over to the window seat, plonk myself down and let out an exasperated sigh, then, I direct my gaze out towards the awe inspiring tempest.
************
A lot of people consider purple to be a solemn colour, probably, because they associate it with bruises and ominous skies, but, I always find myself using it to depict tranquillity and contentment, I've never really understood why. I stare across at my newly finished work: A female silhouette, dancing gaily through a crowded street, encompassed by city lights made hazy by rain. The canvas was a wash of blues, greys, golds, purples, reds and yellows. I prefer to use colour in a metaphoric sense, as a representation of moods rather than a statement of fact. For instance: The apple may be red, but, it is sitting all alone on the table and to me that makes the apple sad, so, I'll paint it gun metal grey. I tend to avoid fixed lines as well. To rigid. For me it is always about the texture and emotion, the rawness of a moment, the absolute truth, the unrefined beauty. The tools of my trade: A palate knife and oil paints.
************
My temples feel like someone is chiseling out the 'Statue of David' from my brain and the espresso is doing nothing to lighten my lead weight eyelids.
"Wow! What bridge did you crawl out from under?"
I turned around and was greeted by 6 feet 5 inches of Ginger hair, freckles and limbs. Crows feet and creases around his lips, at the ripe old age of 29, were a testament to the permanent grin that affixed Cornelius Hornby's face.
"No bridge, just a late dinner with a friend and a storm fit to wake the dead."
Shock nearly stripped the smile from his face.
"Yes, contrary to popular belief, I do have friends." Well... one friend, and a roommate.
"Ha! You almost had me there."
"Get to work Hornby, you've got inventory to do." I let my tiredness feed my scowl as I watched him turn and walk away whistling tunelessly.
*
I don't know when, or why, I started observing the spider scuttling across the ceiling, but, I was consumed by study of his, or her, tiny existence.
************
************
A lot of people consider purple to be a solemn colour, probably, because they associate it with bruises and ominous skies, but, I always find myself using it to depict tranquillity and contentment, I've never really understood why. I stare across at my newly finished work: A female silhouette, dancing gaily through a crowded street, encompassed by city lights made hazy by rain. The canvas was a wash of blues, greys, golds, purples, reds and yellows. I prefer to use colour in a metaphoric sense, as a representation of moods rather than a statement of fact. For instance: The apple may be red, but, it is sitting all alone on the table and to me that makes the apple sad, so, I'll paint it gun metal grey. I tend to avoid fixed lines as well. To rigid. For me it is always about the texture and emotion, the rawness of a moment, the absolute truth, the unrefined beauty. The tools of my trade: A palate knife and oil paints.
************
My temples feel like someone is chiseling out the 'Statue of David' from my brain and the espresso is doing nothing to lighten my lead weight eyelids.
"Wow! What bridge did you crawl out from under?"
I turned around and was greeted by 6 feet 5 inches of Ginger hair, freckles and limbs. Crows feet and creases around his lips, at the ripe old age of 29, were a testament to the permanent grin that affixed Cornelius Hornby's face.
"No bridge, just a late dinner with a friend and a storm fit to wake the dead."
Shock nearly stripped the smile from his face.
"Yes, contrary to popular belief, I do have friends." Well... one friend, and a roommate.
"Ha! You almost had me there."
"Get to work Hornby, you've got inventory to do." I let my tiredness feed my scowl as I watched him turn and walk away whistling tunelessly.
*
I don't know when, or why, I started observing the spider scuttling across the ceiling, but, I was consumed by study of his, or her, tiny existence.
************
