It was one of those days when she felt like it. She just
went for it and out it all came like a force to be reckoned with. Taking only
brief breaks to eat the chicken salad she had made she poured forth like the molten
lava she had seen so many times on the television. The energy rising up from a
place she could not name and source she could not see but it was real.
The storms had eased for the moment and the stressful
call had been over for a while. She had had time mull over the conversation in
her head and present it to her husband in a short Cole’s notes version so he
could absorb the information quickly. He had been in agreement with the
conclusion and that satisfied them both they were together on the project.
Another bite of the salad.
It seemed almost extravagant that she was still here
at this time doing it all over again, but she was and it flew out of her as
quickly as it came. No stopping to think it was just there. It was like this
kind of dance where the dancers were not real but imagined and the costumes
were sparkles but shone only in the moment and not with every strike of the
light. The dance became more furious and the dancers twirled and stepped and
leaped into the air, but they were not dancers.
An artist with a paint brush that clips the bristles
to a fine point and can see the complete image to be painted before the image
is on the canvas. The image of the mind. The image she had for her work. The
image of completeness and of the colour painted without a brush but with her
medium. Something magical that keeps you coming back for more.
Salad done and another image comes to mind and she
completes the thought even further. More to her liking and more to the fullness
of her typical type of art. She worked fevered and allowed it all to come
boiling to the surface and to hit it all with a slam that would knock over the strongest
of athletes. With a caress so soft you almost do not feel it, you need t look
to make sure you are being touched. And it still came forward to her.
Like glamour to a Hollywood star it was natural.
Like the moon to the stars it belonged. Like the child to the mother it is
nurtured and loved. Like to world to the solar system it is a whole. And it
poured forth again. It just came like the rain from the storms that had passed,
it just came. And then it grew. It grew and took on it’s own meaning. It grew
to into desire and it grew into something that was shared and it took a hold of
people and made them want more. It grew.
The size although still small had grown. It had grown
right before her eyes, as if it was alive. It was taking on a life of it’s own,
one that could no longer be quieted it had to be let go. The life that had been
created and formed and nurtured was it ready to be severed?
Maybe, but not yet as she was the artist and the
artist attached of the work could not be severed from it as the creative portal
would then be closed and the flow would stop and she could no longer be that of
which she started. As the artists to the paint brush, the dancer to the dance,
it is the writer to the words.
