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Wednesday, April 27, 2005

So I Painted It

The first time ever I saw her face, I knew. So I painted it.

His picture was in the paper. His mother would be proud. All grown up, and listened to, a long time since he ploughed. His picture was in the paper. So I painted it.

I bought it for the leaves. I knew that it would die. I love them and I water them but then I always get distracted. Before I forgot to water it, its leaves grew big and gorgeous. So I painted it.

She always loved the roses. She sat and watched them every June. It made the perfect house so perfect. So I painted it.

The first time I decided to ignore the Tube, I walked from North to South. I walked everywhere the Tube would have taken me until my feet were sore. I then realized London was joined together. So I painted it.

It hung so heavily and threateningly that I was amazed and relieved it didn't fall when I walked under it. So I painted it.

They talked as they always talked, a conversation being a single thread that seemed to last forever. Until one of them died. So I painted it.

It stuck around all through the week. Views do that kind of thing. It held your gaze from inside from morning until dusk. I drank too much on the last night; I didn't sleep too well. I went outside on the balcony and slowly watched it appear, thinking this would be the last time. So I painted it.

I passed it on the bus every day for seven years. Then they knocked it down to build a better world. So I painted it.

The clouds parted for only two minutes giving me a glimpse of the mountain I wanted all week to see. So I painted it.

The walked and drove so busily, I guess that's what you call a city. In the end I saw no people, only shapes and mostly movement. So I painted it.

The stone I threw over its edge was thrown back up and at me by the wind. So I painted it.

The cloud was in the kitchen on a vacation with no views, until the third day when the cloud left and with the floor still wet, heaven appeared for miles below. So I painted it.

The mist sat on the river as it seemed to every morning, and it left only when the dew left me. So I painted it.

The rest of them were sleeping under a pink sky. Some magical vacations have magical endings. So I went outside and painted it.

I couldn't see her any more. I think it was her choice. All I had left was a feint memory, happy I think. So I painted it.

No longer afraid of flying, I cried when I looked down. Not for what man imposed upon the land but I think for what it imposed upon me. So I painted it.

Her wedding day was perfect. Perfect sunshine and perfect warmth. It was what she wanted it to be. I remembered it so clearly for it was exactly the same, when they buried her estranged husband. It struck me as a horrible journey. So I painted it.

She made me laugh. She made me drinks. She made my day. She made me run for the bus. She had a way about her. So I painted it.

I didn't really like it. Not as cities go. Then I thought that maybe I didn't really like me, as I was in this city. So I painted it.

The falcons drew my attention to it. And so did the boss's dad. It was such a part of his childhood. So I painted it.

The snow was thawing and sliding off the roof. It was the first contrast I saw all day. So I painted it.

She looked at me only once. A cursory glance. In my head I built romance. I might have been wrong, I never saw her again. But I knew I'd never be looked at like that again. So I painted it.

They oohed as one, they aahed as one, they cheered as one, and they loved as one. A primitive kind of family they only wore one color. I had a flag from before I belonged; it didn't really fit. So I painted it.

It was the color of the drainpipe. Or maybe the window sill. Every week I stared at it until the day I said I'd photograph it. It collapsed on its only homeless inhabitant before I arrived with my camera. So I painted it.

Paul Dorrell says:

"Inspiration is largely an inexplicable thing."


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