About interruptions and a life of beginnings….

It’s like I don’t have times to discover and learn things, before the space is taken over. Just oil, or gauche—not enough time or undisturbed room to learn them, before someone needs me or that space or something which doesn’t let me fully learn anything. So, I pick one color, one technique—just red gauche, and white in case I need tone or hue—but I can’t even master red, before something or someone breaks in or through, and causes my red studies to scatter like a Jackson Pollock piece. In fact, at the end, which is not an end, I end up stray painting over the whole thing, as if to obscure it so only children could still see what I was working on. Or worse, I cover it up with dirt to make it look abandoned or like an archaeological tale site, for those in the future to excavate.
He was trying to learn red, the unseen poster read.
Perhaps it is just being used to living on the run. Having to move to the next park or city; leaving my poems behind or on subway walls.
Maybe even if no one ever touched my stuff or needed my space, I would just leave it, half way through everything. But as I get older and can’t run on my way to the next mobile studio; I find I need something like a cave which no one can interrupt; which no one has the key to; which no one, barely even myself, knows about. That secret hidden space with Christ, they wrote about. Where we can just sit and be and listen, and learn a thing or two. An uninterrupted sanctuary of being.
The monks went to the desert. They didn’t want to be found, or have books written about them with maps. They just wanted to be with God and themselves fully. Still, they got famous, and people gathered, and they didn’t get to finish their meditations.
For me, it is not just my awareness of the constant needs of others, it is that I expect to not finish my sentence. Not that it will be plagiarized, or stolen, or lifted by some traveling comedian; but that there is simply an ellipses on my life, and that is part of the sentence which never gets ended.
Make up your alphabet fast, make your wine, age it, drink it and move on.
Forced to write unfitted haiku, I do; but I always thought about a novel, or at least a proper short story; or something that had more than a beginning.
Maybe I am jewish, or Romano, or a circus carney, or was before. I just keep moving from space to space, never ever to find my grave.
Well, my uncles were itinerants as well, but they started churches or useful things along the way. I start nothing, or I only start, and have to leave before I get to put up the Jesus Saves neon sign, to convince people of the truth, by the force of neon. To burn the gospel into them, as it was tattooed onto me.
But maybe I want no sign, or memorial, or even a neon arrow leading to where I’ve been. Maybe I want my life to be untraceable like wind itself.
Or maybe I do want to leave a map, but one impossible to read.
To keep people guessing about where it leads….
I’m not afraid of failure or success; I’m afraid of not finishing my sentence.
Even if I’m just performing for the fat lady on the back row (whom I’m sure is Jesus); I still would like the curtain to fall.