"Black Heart"

What does it mean when the center is black, rotten?  When the lines of infection crawl from the center?  The figures cavorting about the heart suggest that the joy is there, still.  Are they summoning long dead affection?  Is there a feverish dream sequence depicted?  I have to confess that this image is not one of my favorites.  The figures seem to be archetypal;  they are doing expected things in expected ways.  And yet, until just this moment, I have not stopped to contemplate why the coven (my word) is worshiping the infection.  Maybe there is a deeper truth to be gleaned here: sometimes we chase that which is most unhealthy for us.  

I'm a puritan.  A grasper.  A Tracy Flick-like grinder.  There is no genius in me, merely a willingness to hold tight to what I want with both hands, and not let go.  I see so much talent and ability wasted because of inertia, laziness, a lust for just that one thing that is worst for us (echoes of "the best minds of my generation, starving, hysterical, naked").  I can be exhausting in my doggedness.  Others exhaust me when they dance around the infection, worship it, ignore that which is healthy and good just around the way.  What's wrong with trying to do the right thing?

Freedom by GRPArt

I'm beginning a new series of posts on my husband's works, featuring the oldest works chronologically.  A link to his shop can be found here.  

Freedom 

It is an interesting life, being married to an artist.  Sometimes, I see scenes of our lives together represented as paintings with key details changed, and that is the background story of Freedom.  He modeled this painting on a "selfie" of he and I, taking a picture of ourselves in a mirror.  We had just been married that day, and were in a hotel room (a honeymoon suite present from his mother) admiring the large tub and feeling happy.  Feeling relatively carefree.

What I like most about this painting is how warm the eyes of the man are.  He looks protective, and as if he is ready to be there for the long haul.  I could discuss how the style of this painting reminds me of street art found in major cities;  intrinsically urban.  What I really want to convey, though, is how the warm eyes are enough to carry someone through a lot of cold days and nights.

This is a story idea that may or may not flesh out into something larger.  Would love to know what you think, if anyone reads this thing accepting myself, of course.

There was a strange pain like an increasing ache in my lower back.  I moved around the small apartment that had a moldy, wet quality to it.  The pain continued, not increasing but not going away either as I fried rice and ate it for lunch, as I drank Kool-Aid, as I attempted to forget it was happening.  Around 11:00 AM, I woke him up.

"It's time."
"Are you sure?"
"No.  But I want to go anyway."

Entering the hospital felt intimidating.  We entered through the ER and sat at a booth to get registered.  They put me in a wheelchair when I told them why I was there.  I felt small and short in the wheelchair, and out of control.  I was wheeled into a small room that the staff had attempted to make pleasant, with a rocker, wall paper, soft cushions.  The attendant came in and asked me to change into a gown, an examination would be given.  They take your clothes from you when you go to prison as well;  it's like becoming a patient in a hospital steals your identity, a bit.

He peered at me anxiously while the nurse violated me with rubber gloved hands.  I grimaced and twisted.

"When was your last doctor's appointment?"
"Wednesday."  Today was Friday.
"What were you dilated to at that time?"
"3".  I didn't remember this at all, but it seemed like she expected me to know this information.  I plucked a number from the thin air.

"You are still at 3.  We are going to keep you here and watch you for awhile.  Can I get you anything to make you comfortable?".

"No, I think I am OK."

She looked at me with eyes that were measured, honest, a bit cold.

"If you go into labor, it will be a long time before you can eat.  Are you sure I can't get you anything?".

"I'm sure."

My body didn't want food.  My body wanted to get this over with.  I watched television with him and waited.  We made cautious jokes and worried together;  the benefit of a companion.  The hours passed and the nurse came to examine me again.  My body began to open, wider and wider to prepare for what was coming.

"I think we are going to have a baby today".  Her cheeriness felt strange, out of place, in this context.  I could tell she wasn't comfortable with caring for me, having to forgo her usual cheer.