This morning I think I'll stretch a new canvas. Although gesso is usually the consistency of 7-minute frosting (when the humidity's right), fresh and sweet and white, perhaps I've waited too long. Now it's the stale yellowish-brown of Miss Havisham's gown. I guess Ill work on paper instead.
Dense intervals of premonitions narrow the distance between what I wrote and what I erased. I'm still wearing just my slip. I'm thirsty with a slight chance of rain. I comb my hair. Ideas tumble and hide under the sofa. Under my breath. I butter my toast. I nap on the sofa. It doesn't add up, between these lines. I didn't know it'd be like this.I didn't know it'd be this hard. I didn't know it'd be this easy. The poem knows. Iambic divination. But then there's all that syntax to be done. I think I'll paint after all.
Writing the poem, then righting the poem. Painting the canvas, then drawing conclusions. They were so curious about my depiction of water blocking the threshold to that luminous beyond. Someone suggested that water symbolizes Sexuality. I don't know. I've also heard Birth. Should I say gulp? Or glub? Can I afford not to ford it? I don't know. Does it matter? I'm 30 years old. Twice. I should know. I should know better.
In the long run, I may discover it was simply an innate sense of design all along that compelled me to paint that particular shade of blue in that particular space in that particular space in time. Just right. Just write. Draw.
The day slips away and I wonder: What does a deus ex machina look like? And will I even be able to recognize it if it comes along? I climb the stairs.