WOOLGATHERING
Why do I want to write?
Do I have anything important to get off my chest? Do I have anything I think is of value to the world, good lord no, then why spend time punching keys, spending time putting words on paper that no one will read? During moments of fancy I visualize my hand dipping a pen into an inkwell and like magic flowing words appear in a beautiful hand onto wonderfully thick paper stock. The ink running smoothly over the paper, the pen feeling like a machine built for speed and agility, moving in glorious loops forming words that are beautiful to look at. Perhaps it's not words that I yearn for, but maybe the art and flow of a highly trained calligrapher.
Yet the words in magnificent formation like a schooled marching band seem somehow incomplete and unalive, a creation that is waiting for its life blood that will lift it up and make it soar. Color, the cornacopia of the rainbow, the wild not quite sane mind of Van Gogh creating colors that rival the sunlit fields of sunflowers and yellow wheat swaying in the breeze; color, taken from Gauguins wildly splattered pallet of hurriedly applied deep and bright hues to heighten his images of the Tahati in his mind, more than in fact. These colors added to the black and white flowing words create in my mind what I desire.
Yet and alas, God has regretfully left me to only image how great it must be to be able to merge the beauty imagined in your brain and the hands obedience giving it life on the canvas. Alas.
jim kittelberger
2008
Do I have anything important to get off my chest? Do I have anything I think is of value to the world, good lord no, then why spend time punching keys, spending time putting words on paper that no one will read? During moments of fancy I visualize my hand dipping a pen into an inkwell and like magic flowing words appear in a beautiful hand onto wonderfully thick paper stock. The ink running smoothly over the paper, the pen feeling like a machine built for speed and agility, moving in glorious loops forming words that are beautiful to look at. Perhaps it's not words that I yearn for, but maybe the art and flow of a highly trained calligrapher.
Yet the words in magnificent formation like a schooled marching band seem somehow incomplete and unalive, a creation that is waiting for its life blood that will lift it up and make it soar. Color, the cornacopia of the rainbow, the wild not quite sane mind of Van Gogh creating colors that rival the sunlit fields of sunflowers and yellow wheat swaying in the breeze; color, taken from Gauguins wildly splattered pallet of hurriedly applied deep and bright hues to heighten his images of the Tahati in his mind, more than in fact. These colors added to the black and white flowing words create in my mind what I desire.
Yet and alas, God has regretfully left me to only image how great it must be to be able to merge the beauty imagined in your brain and the hands obedience giving it life on the canvas. Alas.
jim kittelberger
2008
No comments:
Post a Comment