leftunspoken's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Violet, blue, red, black, green, gold I haven't been writing lately. A gentle distraction has stolen the few words I have. But he deserves them more than these empty looming pages. The emotions I normally spill here have been stroked instead on canvas. The past two weeks I paint anything that stays still long enough. I permanently have ink, charcoal, or paint stains on my hands and fingers. Which I rather like. Makes me feel purposeful. Though I shall have to start standing on the corner giving artwork away, as my tiny apartment has quickly filled with my paintings and sketches. It's too much, though I love them. It's an odd sensation turning your head this way and that and seeing your heart hanging all over your walls. I feel like my blender ran without it's lid. I should think an art exchange program would be a wonderful idea. That way you can send pieces of you away to visit, while part of someone else stays with you. Though I would wish to find someone who's heart was filled with Italian villas, Creole songs, Grecian waters. I can't stop really. I paint so I won't choke on my endless, breathless tangle of thoughts. You can't very well say violet, and blue, and faces with no features, and dripping zigzagged red, and expect anyone to understand. So I'll go back to painting. Not that anyone sees them. Not that they would understand them even if they did. So there remains this: Why then? Because I would never sleep if I didn't. Because painting what is left unspoken is better than nothing, even if no one hears your painting's voice. 3:36 p.m. - September 15, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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