The Painter

After 64 years on this planet my body is withered, liver spots freckle my arms and face. My hair frail as the most primitive of dolls, the arthritis I've neglected to look after strikes my hands stiff. The puppet master to the soul fossil like remains of my life. Painting.

As I sit here in my regular coffee shop. I am tortured by spite as I watch today's youth carve their names easily, painlessly, into the circular wooden tables. Although there is an anomaly in the comparison of I and them, the four great rosewood chairs embracing there wooden table, are all occupied. Here it is just I. Just I and my disintegrated dismembered dreams, hopes and ambitions.

I once was a recognizable painter, respected in my field. I could paint ten, twenty compositions a day. None in which entailed any thought, just painting for my feeling. My own understanding on how good I was, may have been my greatest downfall. People used to travel to see my work, from all over the world people would walk in and drop there checkbook for any thing marked with my name. My name was seldom required though, everybody recognized it as mine easily buy the vivid blues and reds covering every canvas. The artistic world at that time depended souly on me, I was sure.

The letter came in the mail on a Tuesday, I thought I had it all in my hands. The world was mine, this was nothing but a confirmation letter to my priory established beliefs. A gala in my honour, most people would be counting their blessings, and praying to god that they wouldn't, they just couldn't lose this all, Me? no.

"Why would they have waited this long to honour I? I've been unsurpassable for years!" I bellowed scornfully. Acknowledgement and gracefulness were a untaught lesson to me, astonishing for a man of my stature not to comprehend the most basic of moral beliefs. None the less, I was delighted to go, as much as it did agitate me that it was only happening now.


The night of the gala, Jilian, who now seems to haunt me as the most devine of angels, she took so long. It must be understandable to you? I myself can not, but somebody I'm sure does. I don't know how I questioned her importance, she wore my ring, and was carrying my child. But it was always I, exclusive focus was always mine. You have to understand why I would leave her home, to drive herself. The time she took to get ready was time I spent watching my clock tick, seconds to her execution.


Charles Jeantaud did not create the limousine to be ridden in alone, although that night it was. The family car was reliable, a 5 minute drive would be fine, the snow was only light. My discretion low. Pregnant women just don't drive.


Today in this coffee shop I have a revelation, the future has no promise because we remember the past greater then it was, and the present less then it is. I want to share my thoughts with the adolescents who share the room with me. But I guess, its just a lesson you have to learn yourself.