*Thought I'd try a 3 Word Wednesday. The words are: engulf, tamper, and imminent. :)
Paint brush streaks across the desert terrain whisper softly. Hues of green and brown with splashes of purple and red draw my eye and engulf me in serenity. It's artist porn. The wind catches in my hair. Sunlight beaming as if to say, "Hey, I know you." The mountains stand proud and welcoming with trees like dancing arms to scoop me up in a hug.
It's peaceful here.
So much is chaos now. Thoughts are a jumbled mess inside my brain--imminent trouble on my horizon. But the day burns bright and warms the chill in my bones. For a moment I forget. I forget the stress. I forget the divorce. I forget the words. For a moment I'm just a girl with sunlight warming her face. I'm a simple creature with a sketch pad and coffee watching shadows morph into spiderwebs and crawl across the street.
The street's alive with creatures rushing about their day. Shoppers stopping to say "Hello," "Oh how pretty!," stopping by to try on necklaces. They shuffle their bags and comment on the weather. They beam as if the sun had worked it's way inside them and their eyes are stained glass windows.
They become a mosaic to me--a wash of living glass in red and amber and white. They are tanned skin and turquoise flowing over the old brick streets of Las Cruces. Potted plants and ancient trees line the middle of the street. Children laugh and dash barefoot past my booth. A beautiful little boy with onyx hair and sienna eyes chases a fairy princess in a frilly dress with dirty feet. Her Tinkerbell anklet twinkles in the morning sun. Yellow ribbons flow behind her as she shrieks with glee and evades his grasp.
It's Market Day.
I settle back and think of new jewelry designs, new materials. I sketch and think. Take a sip of coffee. My mind wanders as it's prone to do. I see a lady in a blue skirt. The kind the old Mexican lady's wear. I saw that shade of blue once before. I saw it on a slide of Starry Night. I remember the off color yellow flicker of the projector's light bulb. The instructor speaking with reverence, "Van Gogh saw with his heart. And his heart bled color."
I never really liked Van Gogh. His brushstrokes were primitive, brutal, to harsh to be impressionist. I thought he was a crazy man who cut off his ear. But that was before I knew him. Before I met him in an amber field ablaze with wheat and orange and cadmium red blurring into a river of joy. He smiled at me, an old man with kind blue eyes. Hands too big for his arms and a voice as soft as winter snow, he spoke of all the things within him.
His words rushed out in a stream of cotton. He explained why art should not be tampered with, how expression burns from within and comes screaming out. I listened. I wept. I looked at the honeyed sky and saw frantic brush strokes. I looked at the wheat beneath my feet and saw truth. I looked at Van and held out my hand--one artist to another. But he was gone and it was just a dream.
I blinked and looked at the lady standing at my booth, "How much is this?" I smiled and glanced around her. The other woman with the Van Gogh blue skirt had disappeared. "40 dollars," I say to woman holding my necklace. The Labrodorite beads burn a cool green fire, softened by an antique brass chain. She smiles and says, "I'll take it." I smile back to her and box it up.
It's Market Day; the sun is blinding. Somewhere in the distance Van Gogh is painting heated brush strokes across the sky.