New Painting, "Remain Fluid in All Things"

12" x 12" x 1.5"
Oil and Mixed on Canvas
Available HERE

When I completed this painting, I was reminded of the Charles Bukowski Poem, below...

no help for that / Charles Bukowski

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than
ever

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

and

we will wait
and
wait

in that
space.

~ You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense, 1986

And isn’t this the truth?  The space haunts me. It follows me around wherever I go, no matter who I’m with, at any given moment. At the darkest moments, it feels like a gaping hole in my small universe. At other times, the space is shallow, but it’s never full.

This space is restlessness, a longing for more, not be confused with unhappiness or depression. It’s fidgeting, constantly going and moving and talking and thinking. For me, it is a fear of never feeling complete or always adrift in the world.  But here's the thing I focused on while painting this piece...that's not always a bad thing.

But even in the best of times, times when I should feel like I have it all, there is a glint of something missing…

I have always thought that I just wasn’t occupying the space with the right things. It is an ongoing challenge for me to be comfortable there. So, I have always tried to fill it. I have tried to cover it up with family obligations, friendships, yoga, partying and work. But, I realize now, the space can never be filled.

As Bukowski writes, there is no help for that. The space will always be with us. What I strive to do is learn to accept it and face the insecurity, rather than fill it.

The space is not supposed to take us over. It is there to remind us that there is more and there will always be more. It is our motivation to continue searching for those things and people that keep the space small. And  there is nothing wrong with that faint indication of longing…

A Poem for Wednesday

Trial

20 " x 24"

Oil and Mixed Media inCanvas

Fine Art Prints of this original painting are available on my Etsy site.

How Is Your Heart? 

by Charles Bukowski

during my worst times

on the park benches

in the jails

I always had this certain

contentment-

I wouldn't call it

happiness-

it was more of an inner

balance 

that settled for

whatever was occuring

and it helped in the

factories

and when relationships 

went wrong

with the 

girls. 

it helped 

through the

wars and the

hangovers

the backalley fights

the 

hospitals. 

to awaken in a cheap room

in a strange city and

pull up the shade-

this was the craziest kind of

contentment

and to walk across the floor

to an old dresser with a 

cracked mirror- 

see myself, ugly,

grinning at it all. 

what matters most is

how well you 

walk through the

fire.

A Poem for Wednesday

Dance in the Sun
12" x 24"
Acrylic andMixed Media on Canvas
http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=38863596

Let it enfold you
by Charles Bukowski (excerpt)

either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you

when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.

I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.

I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,

I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
france, italy, walnuts and
the color
orange.

peace and happiness to me
were signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
an
addled
mind.

but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women — it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn't different
from the
others, I was the same,

they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
grievances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.

cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
maybe the other life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.

I re formulated
I don't know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occurred.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
I no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,

I didn't have to prove
anything.

(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned)

I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.

(don't get me wrong,
there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself —
this is a shield and a
sickness.)

The knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I didn't fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
I luxuriated in them,
I bade them welcome
home.
I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw, almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scares, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby's
butt.

and finally I discovered
real feelings of
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving,
for the track,
I saw my wife in bed,
just the
shape of
her head there
so still,
I ached for her life,
just being there
under the
covers.

I kissed her in the,
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.