4.14.06
Grey day. Still in pajamas at 1:30 pm. Smoking a Gauloises and making lists of priorities today that are anything but…simply a catechism of distractions from my ever-present existential angst. Starting to comprehend why such a brilliant tour-de-force as Vincent Van Gogh took to the wheat fields and lopped off his ear. Love and intelligence. The two just don’t mix. An intelligent mind with a broken heart is but a veritable Molotov cocktail.
It sucks, so badly sucks, to be smart and obsessive…nearly or virtually impossible to find peace either within or without. Except when I paint. Which is why I must paint. And I must keep writing because the naked truth unfailingly comes scritch-scratching out of my fountain pen, to spill unapologetically across the blank page in brown ink to defile my delusions.
I am not going to attempt any longer to swallow the prescription of the masses. I must find my muse. I hear him, faintly, getting closer. He is getting closer.
ing closer.
janice j. cunningham 