THE PAINTER’S WAY – THE PREACHER’S WAY
He churned them out at a fantastic rate.
Not taking time to put his mind into pre-meditative gear.
He was unaware of how emotionally supercharged he actually was – inside.
He had no concept of what the Preacher tried to tell him. It was just ‘so many words’.
Words heaped upon many other words, piled up, looking entrance to his brain but falling at the doorstep thereof and forgotten.
Painting for him was a religion – but that was ill-defining it in his mind, – as he had no interest in religion.
It was as though he couldn’t help himself – he had to paint.
Trying to listen to words about self-control was too difficult as he had to get back to the canvas.
He couldn’t process philosophy. He just had to paint. To paint, to engross himself in painting, to pursue it, to become transfixed before the accumulative marks he was making, was the struggling zone, the comfort zone, the escape, the pre-occupation of the day.
Hopefully at the end of which he would fall into bed, in short lived satisfaction, sometimes in the early hours of the next morning.
But because the Preacher was kind to him he had to put up with his interventions, and intervening remarks.
He was glad of his practical help.
Nevertheless, at times he felt like telling him to get lost.
It was all religious jargon, even when the preacher tried to couch his remarks in simpler, non-religious terms.
He was a typical undiscovered, misunderstood, underestimated genius.
No he wasn’t!
But he sometimes wondered if he was, and who could confirm it either way?
He knew that deep down inside him there was a reality that echoed up into his consciousness from time to time, but he chose to wrestle with it and then thrust it from his mind as he placed another canvas on the easel.
The preacher was right and he knew it, but it wasn’t cool, the preacher wasn’t cool. It wasn’t of this world and he couldn’t reach it. At least “…that would have to do for now.”
“Do for now” he thought. “Someday the preacher’s way…”