Portrait of the Artist

Writers are supposed to write, so that's what I find myself doing this Thursday evening. Despite the fact that it was a really long day. One of those days where at 8:00 this morning, I already wanted to go home and the market wasn't even going to open for another hour and a half!

This was the kind of day I knew I'd just have to grind out and keep going by any means necessary. Some people survive on black coffee and bitterness. I drink peppermint tea and reward myself for work with cute cat videos.

This post has been gestating with me for some time. I am not really sure how it's going to go, but I've been feeling the need to say these things. The more out on the limb I get though, the less need I seem to have for writing prompts and Google searches.

Of late, I've been compelled to be more truthful in my writing, in everything I guess. For so long I have to admit, I didn't like myself all that much. It made it much more easy for people to take advantage of me because I was so needy. I wrote about much more mundane things, I was judgmental as hell and I sort of used this blog as a way to vent my colossal spleen at the way life was. In truth, it was more about what I was, how I allowed things to be, choosing to be a victim and cherishing and nurturing all my hurts and scars.

I don't want that anymore. I don't do that anymore.  It seems though, the stronger and more independent I get, the more it seems that I alienate the very people that I want to be closest to. I don't know how to do small talk; I am a disaster at flattery and flirting and all of the social niceties that one is meant to so glibly toss around. I am starting to wonder if this condition is permanent. If I am incapable of changing and maybe most importantly, do I really want to? 

When I  starting taking improv lessons...acting lessons if you will, I was hoping that maybe that would lessen my torment and maybe through acting, I could become the kind of person one wants to have around. So imagine my profound surprise when after all of the work faded, the dust settled and I was the same person, albeit under better control. My friend at work, Diane said it most succinctly, "You really have no game do you?" when I came to her to ask why it seemed that I was so out of my depth with most people and in particular the opposite sex. Diane is famous for her extroverted personality and many of our clients don't consider leaving until they've seen her. She is the expert in all things relational, having before settling down, the distinction of dating several men all at the same time with none the wiser.

At my age, by my 40's, I was certain I would really have a handle on love, in both abstract and reality and that I would have finally sussed out relationships. In truth, the closest I am to understanding love is the framed Marc Chagall print (Sun and Mimosa) that hangs on my wall. In it, the lovers are encased in a bubble framed by an outsize flower arrangement out of which a blue bird tipsily tumbles from the top. It has always felt right to me. "Yep, that's the way love should feel", one encased with love in a bubble shut away from the world with an explosion of flowers conveying the deep romance felt between the subjects and a bluebird signifying happiness and fidelity.

In fact, seeing that print for the first time at a charity auction several years ago was akin to the heady feeling of attraction you first feel for an attractive person. Seeing the colors brought a rush of emotion that I hadn't hitherto experienced from a mere painting, surprising and delighting me and from that moment on, I simply craved it, needing to possess it, wanting to have it on my wall and be able to conjure up that feeling whenever I desired. I placed my bid and waited. The night passed without any announcement and I assumed I had been outbid. I can scarcely articulate the feeling I had when the phone rang the next morning and a voice apologized for not letting me know that I had been the winning bidder the night before.

I often think to myself, 'if I can have that sort of emotion within me regarding a mere painting, why should it be so hard to translate that to a human being'?  I am still uncertain of the answer, uncertain as to why it works with such ease for some, more than once in many cases, and I am still searching for my one "Chagall Moment".

Or even a "Picasso Moment" which would probably require even more soul searching than I find myself capable of.

I would probably even settle for someone just saying, "You are somewhat weird and quirky but I find that fascinating so let's talk some more..."

For now, I'll content myself with the vibrant beauty and breathtaking emotion that calls to me from the Chagall print, assuring me that surely love is alive and well in some corner of the world.