Pen and Paper Ramblings

Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. – Samuel Johnson

  A blank piece of paper transformed from its stark blank stare into a doodle, a sketch or a painting has more pleasant epiphanies for me than most conversations. You learn to appreciate curves with a better understanding. Shadows are not of the devil, but are needed to show you where the light has cracked in. Smiles are as beautiful as flowing hair, grins as striking as a solar eclipse and every iris a blooming flower.

  Art is a reflection at times. It’s a combination of the outer and the inner. I sketch something, a flower, a mountain, a dog, a woman, because I’ve reacted to it internally. I see a glimmer of soul in a mountain range that resonates with an inner working of mine, it compliments a certain outlook, whether through contradiction, absurdity or conformity.

  I found myself in the strange position tonight of returning to a situation I had left abandoned for years now. I sat down and I sketched. I drew cartoonish creations of my friends, I experimented with a self-portrait of myself in shadow and coal, and I sketched a beauty that makes me anxious, hopeful, and self-doubtful and a nervous, smiling wreck. I appreciated all these more with every stroke, trail and scratch of the pencil and pen.

  Now I face an internal dilemma. I sketched something, or rather someone, beautiful to me. The problem arises that what I know of her seems at times beautiful, and other small, minor bits I might detest. My problem is that I know too little to really experience her as beautiful. Skin, flesh and collected bodily adornments have no part to play in my criteria of beauty. The body is not a standard of beauty, nor is it a candle that shines in the dark.

  Beauty is knowing, understanding and feeling the rhythm of a person. This is a beauty that grows with time, that stretches and expands itself through experience if the person, or thing, enhances his, her or its better aspects. It can also recede, obviously. Where there is growth there is the obvious chance for both death and recession to get their crooked, but well meaning, feet in the door.

  This all seems very clichéd to me at times, especially it seems more so hearing it spewing forth from my tongue. But the words jump off without little effort, and there is hardly a hold or watch on my tongue to ensure that I do not embarrass myself. My words are true. I mean every letter’s curve and trail of it.

  Now another problem arises, just as one is considered another raises its head to jest, stab and in plain Saxon; irritate the fuck out of me. I do not trust others enough to believe that they would agree with my viewpoint on this matter. I have found myself agonizing over a girl. A lovely grace, I think, and one who has quite an influence on me. She fills my thoughts, and it is a sweet, melancholy torture for me at times, because right now, and for the past few weeks I’ve been unable to act upon my intentions. Now, now; I’ve not cut my head off and thrown myself at the mercy of a woman just yet. I know too little of her to fully embrace the thought of an eternal love scenario. No, rather, I’m open to a risk. This risk is what I’ll call a leap of faith. Maybe in the religious sense of it, but also in that ‘fuck it all’ sense. Yes, I’ll risk throwing myself off a cliff very soon, but I’m planning on falling into an ocean, so if I hit the waves at the very least I’ll feel a sudden cold and experience the battering coastal rocks, but I’ll survive.

  There does exist that paranoia that I might just be embarrassing myself miserably. But that is the risk. What this infatuation has caused is a growth within my own sense of self. A deeper understanding. On one hand, I’ve realised that I am indeed a spectacular catch; I’ve got a sense of humour, I’m dashing and charming to an extent and highly likable if I desire to act so. Sadly, on the other hand, I’m also strikingly weird, isolated at times, silent and indifferent. I’ve found myself wanting more, but not acting because I feel myself a burden unto others. It’s that whole ‘treat others as you want to be treated’ guilt trip. I wish not to be burdened by other people, so I feel I should not burden them. The problem is people are on a whole to nice, quiet and secretive to tell me whether I am being a little shit, and so I’m left to speculate and speculation has hardly ever yielded a positive result for me.

  But here is my creed; I’m willing to carry a burden, any burden, for this girl and for some of my close friends. Fuck, I’ll even hang on to their troubles and help after they’ve decided to unburden me. I’m willing to take the punishment they have to endure. Simply reason why; they’d do the same for me. We’re not always aware when we’ve let go of a person in our lives, and often when we have it’s damn difficult to rebuild the bridge between us. Someone has to keep holding on, as idiotic as that sounds. I’ve lost great friends in my life for simplistically stupid reasons and some of it I regret. Now, I’m going to hold on and I’m going to risk some of my false dignity.

  In the end, there can only be one thought you die with, and I’d like mine to be of something red; a crimson beauty. For red is the colour of life, of a roaring existence. Write my name in the red book and mark it with black ink.