Under the Fluorescent Lights

Little Bird being a bird

I think there is an intimacy in expression —

a way pieces of us land on the canvas

or through pen onto paper -

that really can be so vulnerable and

naked-

Most of us hide from even creating anything at all.

When I was painting yesterday,

I felt a resonance

within my own thoughts.

A cohesion that kept affirming

“yes, that’s how it feels,”

or

“man, that’s so true.”

And it came in moments.

I might have been noticing a deeper glance

in the way the eyes were emerging,

or in the way my pareidolia

was seeing a story of character emerge.

Or how the little bird was

just being a bird

in the middle of all of these

deep emotions

that were living in the random marks

created by my new tools.

The air felt true.

Time, space, judgment, insecurity,

loneliness all became non-

existent.

It’s just me seeing me.

And chatting about it —

and feeling deeply heard,

touched and seen in the

places I’m rarely met

by other humans.

A communion.

A conversation

of the timeless eternal

depths of my soul.

I even started dancing in the studio,

feeling liberated —

so free.

Like God looking at my

nakedness and saying,

“yeah, it’s all absolutely

perfect and always has

been.”

The garden of Eden,

before there was a knowledge

of right and wrong.

Just pure innocence

and truth.

And then it’s time to clean

up and run some errands.

So I wash the brushes and

the paint off my hands and

look at the painting again.

But this time I feel naked

and exposed.

Like I went to the grocery

store and forgot to wear

clothing.

Now I see the painting through

the eyes of all the ones

who know about skill and

technique and color theory

and aesthetics.

I’ve eaten the forbidden

fruit, naked, with all

eyes on me — in the

produce section of a Walmart.

Under the fluorescent lights.

Under the Fluorescent Lights