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Mar. 23, 2007 The Painting The drawing had always been the same, before it had become a painting. It had been drawn for years, on papers that had lines, or squares, and of course plain paper too. Sometimes it had been charcoal, or done in marker. In the beginning it was done finely, with much care and precision, and in other years it developed to, at times, just a few lines here or there, almost a note of a drawing. Sometimes, though it was rare, the scene was done with watercolors, but those had been lost to time and circumstance. One main painting survived, one that was done with industrial paint. The only reason it survived was because the old man had painted it, many years before, on a big board, and the board, as things go sometimes, had stayed around in garages, barns, storage sheds, and the like. He came across it a few weeks before he died, by accident, while looking for some rope that he could use to end his life with. He would hang because he was now too old to tend the crops and there was nobody to help. He did not see this end with any moral dilemma or confusion. He had now gone far past his usefulness as he saw it. He saw death as an important and necessary part of life. He sat for a time and looked at the painting. In the background were mountains, and they were painted silver and gray. There were handsome mountains, and they had snowcaps. In behind and in front of those, were smaller ones, and these were many. They had ridges and some cliffs and many indentations and interesting lines for shading. In the middle ground was a log cabin, with some rectangular windows, and a pathway coming from the back that led slowly and meandered, but went up to beginnings of the mountains. In the front was a path too, that led to a field. The field became the fore ground, and it had a tree, and flowers grew there in wild grasses. The flowers were yellow, with a dash of red always, as if they had been cross-pollinated. Looking back up to the top, above the mountains, there were two groups of birds in flight. The first ones in the V formations could be made out, but the others were just strokes of the paintbrush to declare where two wings were. There were clouds, some floating by in front of the mountains and some in back. There was a sun and a moon. The sun was dark red, and dropping below a mountain. The moon was on the other side of the sky, and it was a cold and defiant blue. Also, it’d not be noticed at first, but if the board was looked at closer, it could be seen that there was rain coming down. The old man had almost forgotten about the light rain, but when he saw it he remembered it well, falling across a bit and down, through the air. Chocolate Windy ways of the bricks and the sun set forever, running away. Cruise ships and candles, the depths of the sea. Anchors and black hats, or rooftops of hail, and the floods of the bays. Gone to the red yards, and the flowers of May. Big fields of wind, and there are hydro lines there, and it’s a wild one, and pathways of ghastly pebbles and silver entertainers, leaves of joy hanging down from the wires. There are a thousand brunettes, and there are scars, and noses with happy freckles, or foundation gets there too. Plunk, dunk, funk, the great calm and the director of days. Pearls. Pearls and the electric sweaters of goose and other. Pancakes and they pile up to the heavens, and windows to look out of. Trips on spaceships, told of in hieroglyphs. Blinking battalions bawdy bistros blandishing botanical bluesy broads busy bleak and buxom! Gosh the cycles of time. Folding, folding. We grow old. We grow to the heights and plummet the depths. Green is the color of the moon, and the sun could be striped, because monkeys laugh on branches and the sloth sleeps but sometimes swims too, where the marigolds rest to dance again, or float on ways of merriment. Wallpaper and cookies. There was an idea at the end of it all. If there were huge chunks, huge blocks of chocolate, couldn’t someone who knew about baking cut up the chocolate into pieces and include them in muffins or cookies or something? Falling fickle fellowships fun for fancy fast fits forlorn floundering floundering floundering for fabulous foes. Who Made The Creator? Who Made Who? – AC/DC Where was the Creator before creation, or as they say in places of higher learning, where is the watchmaker if there is a watch. A watch there makes it seem like there is a watchmaker somewhere. Maybe there is a Creator, but he mostly doesn’t talk. If you talk to God, as the saying goes, that’s all fine. If he talks back, you are crazy. The creator might be both him or herself or itself and the created. Then the Creator steps back and sees how it goes. Then it’s not a very nice Creator. Kind of cold. Very aloof. If there is a design, then it is broad indeed, and includes much mounds of suffering and death. The Creator might or might not be there. If so, he would have some explaining to do. We should continue the search always. One never knows. Until one knows. When this knowledge comes, it would be good to know if the Maker had a Maker, or if He is a self generating continual always going always being always in and beyond time and space through the forever infinite eternal type. And what does he take with coffee anyhow? Sometimes, it’s hard to connect with such a being. “There is no God. If there is a God it is not me who is going to have to answer. It is he who is going to have to answer to me.” – Osho Rajneesh. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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