Open the window to a different view

If I were a young writer searching for my voice would you listen and comment on my veracity in tone and text?
I could be standing on the stone in the river watching the river move slowly on. I could watch and tell you of the upstream... the otters, the arching willows, trout sleeping in dark pools. no, I could not see the rapids and the waterfall, a few miles further on.
I am downstream, looking back at the beautiful falls; the river pounding on the slippery rocks under the foaming water. I stand on a sandy beach eroding as I watch the falls.
I am old, I remember clinging to the rock above the falls. I remember how the current of time swept me down stream and the only mercy was the rock I could cling to as I listened to the crashing river.

click to feed fish

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

path to health


Trees in the Garden of
 Saint-Paul Hospital
Saint-Remy,October 1889
Oil on canvas 73x60cm
United States of America,
Private collection

The spindly young trees are reaching out from a sloping hillside. They arch and stretch toward the deep worn path at the foot of the hill that leads to the Hospital. Friends were tempting him back into the art world at this time. He had suffered two terrible alcoholic slips after visits to his friends in Arles. He was attempting to gain control of his demons.  He was reaching like these trees for the path and the light. Sobriety had only been glimpsed at during this period. He did have AA to guide him. His doctor demonstrated that his epilepsy was triggered by alcohol. He was on a slope like the trees writhing with life and asking for the path.
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