The Portrait

Part 1

The Portrait

“Damn Them, Damn Them All,” Michael stormed into the vacant air of his room, “Damn Them!” His face a mask in red.

As he slammed the door to his room, with a fury best placed in a boxing ring, a rattle rang around the room, from various chattels closest to the door. A picture standing on a shelf on the door wall, fell top first, then thunked to the floor.

Michael was writhing in contortions of frustrated anger. Both fists were taught, to the point of the knuckles bearing white. His whole body struggled with tension, twisting into unnatural poses. While his face contained a grimace, thin to white lips, and eyes reeling, with forehead closing over inflamed eyes, all caught up in a vicious scowl. More demonic than anything but a total fury could conjure.

He stamped the floor, hissing and spitting, caught up a circular dance. Staring the floor this way and that, without seeing anything in this red trance.

Explosively his foot shot out, at the nearest real target.

A chest of drawers.

With a bang and a crack, the lower draw gave inward; splintered. The variety of paraphernalia on the drawer jumped up in jolted unison. Then landed again. A cup cracked onto the floor. Old coffee painted the drawer and carpet; a letting of dark, unsightly, liquid sank into his room.

He felt no pain, as Michael was practised in the art of fury. With instinctual skill he’d kicked the drawers with the ball of his foot, thus saving his toes from his wrath.

The kicking leg fell back behind him, and with a clumsy turn he looked for the next target.

“Bastards ! ! !” He pronounced, while pacing short, strained steps.

The next target was chosen.

The wardrobe.

His fist struck out the wardrobe door. The flailing right hook, knocked the wardrobe up and back. Then it resettled into place. This time however the pain, did register through the maniac state.

An inward rasp sucked between the teeth, as the ribs grew with the feeding breath. The mortal pain, sedating somewhat the foul aggression..

The right fist held set, floated at midriff, following his body, whilst the left hand open and taught wide, twisted. Both arms carried along, Neanderthal like, in his whirling and irregular stomps. The punch had left Michael pained, frustrated, staggered; the mix leaving him with no direction to vex the ire.

The anger was somewhat exorcised by the acts of gratuitous violence. With direction and momentum somewhat lost now, it allowed him to come down to a steaming huffing and puffing. Still with clasped teeth, and lung-like cheeks rationing the depth of feeling.

His face turned this way and that, as the spell subsided. Michael’s body dropped, somewhat forcibly into the wicker chair, each fist settled, fixed on either side of lap, resting, hovering on the hips. Both elbows were set at right angles, arms pointing out to either side. In a just plain angry frame now.

“Three of them!”

Wisping, partially uttered, curse like sounds hissed through still bitten teeth.

“Trust no-one!”

The bottom lip rose to close the mouth, followed by a long nasal snort.

Gradually the fists loosened, and the jaw loosened, then tightened again, again loosening in a duality with feeling rising and subsiding. As a tide on the wane.

“Damn them all.” Michael spat the words out, “Each and every one of them.” If words could kill, then Michael’s were spoken with that intent, venom dripping from each syllable.

Both arms slackened off and rested on the arms of the chair.

The head and body sank back into the chair slightly. Chin dropping slightly downward, changing mood in gradient toward a state of reflective sobriety. The anger now in eddies, ebbing, effing and falling away.

“Why does all this seem to happen to me again, and again?”

Whispering out loud his thoughts rhetorically. Michael often talked to himself, being a common symptom of the isolated, and he worried not of it these days. “Why?” Asked in self frustration; in accusation; in questioning.

Always, Michael had been courteous to the Grocer. Each time politely smiling on being served. Each time thanking him for his change. Even entering brief, but friendly chats on common ground issues. Those non-conversation conversations, kind of verbal wallpaper. Corner shops being a place best for these chats. The weather, flu epidemics, the pro’s and con’s of vitamin C in curing colds. That kind of thing.

“People!” Michael exclaimed in earnest.

What really got him were the Paper boy and the Old lady. All of them laughing. At him. Just a silly mistake, anyone could have done it. Except he had done it. Firstly, dropping the jar of mayonnaise, and then fumbling attempts to catch, it then smashing on the floor. Going everywhere. Then, upon stooping to use his attention of it, to do something with the mess. To make it go away. Then, wouldn’t you know it, the copy of “Masc” magazine fell from his coat to the floor. In full view, of all the others.

The men’s magazine, not a soft porn mag, displayed its cover of the model Elle Dupont half naked. The cover photograph was tastefully done; all the same she was still half naked. Earlier, he had carefully folded it into his coat pocket, just to safeguard against this kind of misunderstanding. The quality men’s magazine, for ‘the single male of today’, now displayed for the others, just spelt out ‘sad lonely dysfunctional pervert’ .

In an instant he had grabbed out. A bolting right hand fired off to retrieve his shame. But then within the second was torn back, by his left hand swerving to the mayonnaise mess.

Caught between the two embarrassments, with eyes bearing upon him, pressing him into the unyielding ground, Michael had juddered in minute spasms. Worst of all he felt his face glow redder and redder. Thereby confirming his suspicions of their suspicions. They knew now with no doubt this man was a ‘sad lonely dysfunctional pervert’ . “I’m not, I’m not.” He’d shouted with all the telepathy he could muster.

Then the laughter came. In its most horrendous torrents, it tore into him, tossing a jittering mind this way and that. It pinned him to his millennium of misery. Snared as a big mouse. The trusted Grocer had turned against him.

Escape ! Escape ! His only clear thought.

The purgatory relinquished then for a second, with sense allowing a brief entry to allow the avenue of escape.

In a lightening reaction, seemingly in one movement, almost with grace, the magazine was stuffed into the coat. A small pile of loose change swiftly left his trouser pocket, and was scattered on the counter. He’d mumbled, mumblings to excuse against reproach. The others faces, large, twisting in bouts of hilarity, wouldn’t excuse him, or give him leave.

Grabbing the door he’d pushed into it. It had jammed, not giving an inch, his body following into the door. Flattened into it.

Again a hoot of laughter burst from the others. Bigger, more fervent than the previous, now seemingly insignificant laughter. The cackle of hoots pushed him still further into the door.

Grimacing to himself he’d thought- how can this be? How much more?

Extracting backwards from the door, firmly facing the outside world, he pulled.

Like a breath of cool winter air, the door opened. The outside was there.

Michael left. Almost exhausted. Upset.

“Save us the centrefold !” Came the boy’s crying hoot.

Cringing, shrinking bodily, head recoiling, he wished the pavement away. Striding with such power of will, to disappear away.

The whole rigmarole played through over and over again.

Playing it back and forth. How could he act with such grace after the accident, and at the same time fumbling like an idiot like that. If only one, or maybe two, had been in the shop maybe they’d have let the episode go without a laugh. The luck of three people, or rather the misfortune of three. How awful. Now and for the foreseeable branded a ‘pervert’.

Ostracised, outcast, alienated.

Weeks of frustration, no years of penting up self and outward burgeoning anger had exploded with this recent drama. Years and years of anger had exploded through him into his room. Himself: the world: people !

Again more alone than ever before. How would he get his grocery shopping done now? Thought Michael.

Michael heaved a long and satisfying sigh.

Peering about the room, Michael searched for the next thing.

Whatever that was. Michael’s old depressions were back. A big black one was on him.

Cupping his head in his hands, the head sagged deeper.

Another sigh, blew forth, slower than the last, gassing out, in a lingering, tapering away.

A spark came to his sagging thoughts.

Michael looked about him. There it was.

Spontaneously looking around again in the other direction.

There they were. Like an old man in his last days, he rose. Curved shoulders pointing down weighed Michael lower, as ploddingly he approached the first object of his desire. The beloved half bottle of Malt, left over from yesterday and yesterday’s troubles. Twisting the top of the bottle off. In a manner strikingly similar to that of breaking the neck of a chicken. The bottle was raised. With as near a reverence as a lethargic repertoire could, and then overly matched by a wanton, obtrusive desire; he drank.

Tipped up in a sudden, sharp near violent gesture. The burning whiskey slugged into Michael’s mouth.

The drama of a hundred whiskey drinkers was re-lived by Michael’s lowering of bottle from mouth. The widening tight mouth, and the following mandatory compressed semi-sigh, issuing sideways from the whiskey mouth.

It charged the whole mouth, shaking him up in the back of the throat. Glands issuing salt saliva to ward off the poison. It slithered, steaming toward the bowels.

The charge and ephemeral tingle caroused brain and body.

“Aaaagghh.” Was the long, mildly announced reply to this indulgence.

He sat.

“Ah!” Michael remembered out loud, for a second forgotten in the caress of the whiskey hit.

Feeling a touch better, eyes set on the second object of desire, or rather his object of need. Tilting head and bottle another deep and satiating draft was watched in. Consumed eyes fixed on the carved box all the time.

A blink. A swift mouth wipe. The caress washed through again, a little less pronounced than before, all the same still heaven like.

Up he rose.

The slight haze brought the sharp edge off sharp thoughts, things looked better now. Smoother. More manageable. Easier.

Two steps and on it. The next object. Such ease. Again another swallow, another caress. Then picking up the wooden box. Retreating. Stepping two steps backwards, and slumped down deeper into the wicker chair.

Another protracted swig, longer this time, as there was the mission to see to. The mission must be done before the binge could continue, to cure or appease this bout. The mission must, yes must be done. All before the start could be made to get started. Settling the near empty bottle on the floor, a shadow of a smile flew over his lips, all the time both eyes were set on the box.

Opening the small wooden box, the shadow smile let play another visit. Looking inside, the necessary items were identified and removed.

The eyes open, alert for a second, checking,

Rubbing the sore eyes, they gazed over again for a second.

Double checking.

It was alright the door was shut.

*

Finally, stumping out the ‘Smoke’ in his ashtray, he gazed about him. All seemed well, the fused haze of the long gone whiskey, intertwined with the succumbing, sensuality of the Smoke gave a haze. Twinned intoxication gave the pleasures and relief that Michael had needed so, so desperately badly. He looked out of his stained window, to the below.

The day was a fine show of enlivened sunlight. Flicked around and about by the shadows, skipping over, and around the street. The fast shifting shadow dance, was played about by the wisp spirit clouds. Hurling, through the blue to white above.

The free wind turrets’ jumped, dancing in chaotic dervish. Fancifully, frenetically leaping into and over all that came their way. Paper, leaves, miscellaneous litter spelt out the cajole of vortex spirits enjoying their freedom, in mischief.

Spirits all, led by the maestro of the wisp spirit clouds.

A woman, bound tight by headscarf and mackintosh, huddled herself together. Her will matching against the elementals, on the upward street wrestle. Grasping taught the dark yellow coat. Her head faced at the pavement, butting her way through the barrage of winds’. Freed loose for a second her pace would falter forward, then within the second again, pushed. Once again pulled rearward, by the hurtling resurgence of the joking winds’. Gravity and force pawning the steps of the woman. Soon she was at the end of the wearisome, battle of this street. On the next street, on to a new set of obstacles to defuse and overcome. While the winds’ laughed about and around, seeking all prey.

Michael paced backward, sloth like creeping to bed, rest and sedation. The comic-sad woman in her struggles lay in his thoughts, but not for long.

*

Random waves of altering intensity, knocked Michael’s room window in and out, in its frame. The chaotic knock and clatter of the ill fitting windowpane, gave such a performance as to wake Michael’s dead slumber.

Blinking out through the glazed, sullied eyes of his vision wandered aimlessly. In a dulled blur Michael focused toward the hullaballoo of the demon possessed window. The right hand of Michael fell on his face, covering the face, and pushed slovenly about the partially

anaesthetised facade. That being of Michael’s dulled countenance. The mangled massage lingered for a few glorious moments of gratification.

With an extraordinary deal of effort Michael strained his head up, to look at the window.

It rattled furiously in the buffets of wind...

He looked about him.

A faint an audible ‘tut’ clucked from the disgusted mouth. Still clothed and prostrate in hopeless collapse from the mornings binge. Or maybe it was tomorrow he mused. Then he noticed the sunshine washing on the door wall. It seemed too pale in strength, too darkened with titian staining, for morning.

Another staggering effort brought the left arm over his eyes, to see his watch.

“Another day gone.” He moaned to no-one. The watch told him it was half past six.

Mumbling with mixed inaudible grumbles, the slovenly muddle pulled himself to sitting.

“Yet another day gone.” How long could he keep up this wanton oblivion? He mused. So many days lost, gone forever. Still it’s the only way to survive, in this cruel world of hate, pain and betrayal; was Michael’s standard panacea philosophy for such an occasion.

Day, days gone. Evening, morning; did it matter?

“Michael, Michael,” He stuttered “Michael.”

Woe to him. Woe to Michael.

How he hated that name. It was so nothing, so empty in meaning. He’d toyed with Mike, it was too nicey nice, too matey. Quite simply, shallow, like asking for forgiveness each time he would’ve uttered it in introduction. As for Mikey it didn’t get a second thought. Mick was common, a laddish working class title. He wanted respect, so despite the all too common shortenings, he stuck with Michael. After all it was his proper birth name. For better and for worse. Better to be a Michael than a Mickey! Could he change the name to something utterly different? No, that would be to countermand his no surrender policy, in bowing to them.

Michael pulled himself up.

His head span for a while, and leaning on the bedpost, it returned to good balance.

Now he had to do something. The day had passed by him, and as night was seemingly to closing, his time was dawning; he would start the painting. Night – peace.

For a long while he had explored more radical techniques.

With the Surrealists’ paintings he found most reward. They seemed to hold a mystery, that would last as long as the paintings could be seen. To fathom not only their techniques, but far more importantly the subject matter contained within. The idea of visual ‘free association’, and letting the mind, his mind, wander. The very idea of letting his deeper mind paint by itself, to the more primitive Michael, was fascinating. The imagery, the symbolism, metaphor, all let loose in that land of the surreal, seemed like a Mine waiting for extraction. What treasures! God only knows.

Setting about the room gathering his tools; his psychic tools, he laughed in mute to himself. Chucking the head back in joy. As he gathered the brushes, palette, cloth, and paints as his resolve to paint reinforced itself with each thought.

All the basic foods were bought yesterday. The outside world was by far unnecessary, and from the earlier misadventure was to be avoided. The years of misadventures in the world built his resolution stronger. He would paint, and paint until the last scrap of food in the room was gone. Even while starving, he’d paint, he’d paint until the hunger pains could not be pacified with water. Or even eating paper!

He didn’t want the world, the world didn’t want him. The painting would be his saviour, the sanctuary in his room, the whole damn universe he needed!

So with enthusiasm appearing close to madness, in bordering a burgeoning state of mania, the easel was erected. The brushes and paints were set about on the small wooden table by the easel.

Gently lifting a small canvas, Michael reverently placed it on its platform.

Michael sat back grinning. A fixed, partially manic stare looked into the canvas portal. A shaman before the ritual, a soothsayer gathering his tools and thoughts about him.

Where or how to start didn’t really give any bother, as the mind was sinking inward. The esoteric stare led onward and inward, into the antipodean depths.

In a seeming reflex action the paints were mixed. Automotive instinct alone guided the hand. Delivering up an array of the spectrum, within its diversity of substrata, on to the palate. For the flow onto the portal of canvas.

The fine brush dipped into the basest paint – the ebony.

The journey began its ascent.

Stroke followed stroke, each colour and shade filling outward from the canvasses centre. No visible trace of conscientious cognisance gave evidence to the consciousness at work, or play, or both.

At times in a frenetic state of chaotic verve the lines and curves were laid down. Other times the flow eased into gentle delicately put, tiny placings of paint. The juxtaposition of pace, randomly gave and withdrew. As the wild tide of thought activity swelled to waning, to waxing, and on again.

The mania rode on.

The intensity of thought portrayed in facial and bodily expression, at times had a near tangible feel. Michael’s whole being was in this painting. Every fraction of the brain involved. Through the tense eyes, fraught, possessed face gave the personification of focused intensity.

Violent surges of jabbing stabs attacked the embryonic growth of imagery. The orchestration at times would take an air of loving flourishes caressing delicate detail, filling out the wider picture.

The rolling tide of attacking hate, to quiet loving, from frenzy to peaceable, evolved.

Over the timeless hours shapes grew, fell away, dissolving, fluctuating into form. Caught along with no sign of knowing, Michael painted on in the trance like intensity. The painting had become the whole world for now. Entirely absorbing the man. He had come into union with the creation, the symbiosis feeding and draining each other. From painting to man, and man to painting. As one.

Throughout the evening, in through the night the mystic creation grew bigger and deeper. At the very occasional break a glass of water or a cigarette would be taken. As the night sailed on, the coffee would sustain him. Never for a second would the eyes or mind stray from the painting.

Each partial respite would invigorate the next assault on to the picture. Throwing himself back wholly into the painting each time.

On in through the small hours of early morning the ceaseless task continued.

Coffee. Cigarette. Paint. On it went.

Eventually, dawn lent the iridescent glow to the new day.

Beautifully hewn blues interwoven in an array of oranges, pinks, deep reds of the new sun lit the morning. Filling the day out in the most magnificent sprays of colour. Michael’s room in magic bloomed in sun daylight.

A drained Michael bent over the picture, with cramped back.

Every now and again, inspecting, retrospecting over the portions of the painting. An addition occasionally would be made, in small detail. Then longing periods of sitting hunched in muse. Chance tapping the paint brush on the lips or table. Hours stretched on. Still Michael in amuse, studied, altered and added.

Time to time Michael pulled out of fading over a warm sleep. Caffeine influxions fuelled the trip, to waylay sleeps dark and lovely Siren call.

Time became invisible in Michael’s eyes, between doze, jerk, fall and action it – he went on. Forms on the painting filled and blossomed. Sometimes expanses of long notice held him captive in bent pose.

Some bread in between moments, left Michaels world spinning through the outer universe. Light, shade, time flowed through and through and through.

On until eventually a new day was fully fledged day time; born.

Was it the next day? The day after starting? Two days after? Never three?!? Michael swam in exhausted ethereal drifting thinking. He had no idea what amount of time had gone on from start to now. None – it was gone, however long it had taken.

Burning on through the time, the puttings, placings, dry brushed edges blended in this pastiche.

Unable to sit back in all his exhaustion, rather faint, and quite drained, the pastiche had to be done to all detail.

Obsessionally, flickering in his last morsel of energy, the occasion of reflective grew to outweigh the action. The drawn out pausing eventually grew to pacify the man’s mind. Sat back – it was done.

Streaks and splodges of different colour paint littered the room and himself. In the hair, face, clothes and hands, he was painted himself.

The pale painted face looked as though the man had aged considerably. The ordeal of the intense exercise certainly tolled the strength of the man. For now it was over. It was done.

The frail body and mind now had to sleep. Sleep he did.

*

The sunrise grew fuller. The magnificent, magical hues, emanating, brighter, expansive shades of colour held light. From the golds, to base blue tones, reaching the peaks of flaming high reds. Gelled with lavender, to the fire tips of yellowed oranges. The new day was here, and its warmth glowed deeper into the artist’s room.

*

His eyes flickered open. Eyes again closing to open.

The ceiling was bearing down, in all of its grey reality. Paint cracks, flowing cobwebs, - it was there.

His eyes flicked closed and open, then wandered about the ceiling.

Washing through, life crept to the limbs.

Twitch in the leg. Twitch in the finger.

The left arm pulled over onto his eyes.

He could feel cold feet.

Gentle draft of air visited his bare skin.

Bolting upright. His torso shot his body vertical.

Head spinning, both arms crookedly jumped by each side to support him.

A blinking stare gazed downward seeing nothing. Blinking the head in minute, swaying, semi-jerks.

He looked at the old empty bottle of Malt. The dazzled eyes wandered about to the ashtray, and mandatory cigarette stumps. Falling into his lap the eyes sank, and miniature slipping eyes were in near incoherent spasm-like movements.

A gulp, on an empty throat.

With gathering speed the eyes began to dart from side to side, held in the tunnel of his own thoughts. A smacking of lips. The eyes now in jumpy, blinking, leaping; all while accelerating.

A jolt - stare – up, front and level.

It was there.

Slap and bang and in his face.

The ringed, charcoal coloured framed eyes, in blood shot strains seemingly recoiled. As did his upper body, near imperceptible in movement, yet obvious. The left side of his mouth, grimaced out into a broadening smile which filled across the mouth, till a full beam lifted into Michael’s face.

Led by his protruding head, he stood and moved closer to his portrait.

Haunched unnaturally. Head still held forward, with mouth gaped. Head swung gently, jaw first to one side. Ever so slightly, the jaw-led face swung over to the other side. Eyes were alight in wondrousness. Child, idiot, maniac, a man gone too far and still there.

A leaping smile brushed over him.

In a stumbled movement the legs walked back steps. Both arms feeling behind him for support. Whilst gaping at his work in the back stepping retreat. Finding the bed edge with the backs of his feet, he allowed to sit. Gaping all the while.

A tongue struck laughing gasp, was well met with hands over his face. Palming another trapped giggle into the hands, the shaky head waved slowly and gleefully in his hands.

A breathing long into the hands, he looked between the fingers as both hands sank down to hold his lower jaw. Jaw cupped in the hands, he looked.

Dominating the whole picture was an old tree. Placed directly in the centre of the picture. The top right branches appeared quite dead, while the rest of the tree was abundant in life. The deep cut veins in the bark, the knarled stature, size and hearty width, gave an impression of antiquity. Hung over, the solid branches held out firm in the surround. In an ever widening cascade, ivy, held a portion of the tree. Issuing midriff down, one side of the tree covered in, to thickening around the base, with the lush ivy. Caught partly in shade, silhouette, and blackening hues, the tree gave to lighter, greener livened colour. In places being almost bright. Appearing to reflect light. The light giving an impression of coming from the outside of the painting. As if the light came from the viewer of the painting, on to the picture, in to the picture.

Yet the backdrop to the picture was set in sun hues. Great swathes of deep purple fed the blackening horizon. Purple centred clouds, low in the sky, gently held behind the solid black, silhouette, mountainous horizon. Their edges dissolving into magnificent magentas. Behind the clouds, stretching across the central horizon, hung a molten yellow. Yellow rising in density into the firebrand oranges. Higher in the sky, the expansive fired oranges melted. They gave up to ever deepening, burning, darkening reds. The overlay sky was patched violet catching up into the deepest purple. Giving in finale to the sky blue. Filling up to the iridescent nirvana blue. Rich blue, magical blue ...paradise blue.

None of this back sun light had any impression on the tree. The tree had a facing light to illuminate it.

A half moon, small in the top right of the painted sky, faded in to the twilight air. The shaded other half of the moon could just be made out. It could have been one of the rare moons seen in the day. Equally, it could have been the moon in readiness for the coming night. Whatever, it was half shade, half light.

Although, an illusion maybe, it appeared not quite half moon. Slightly less maybe. A too finer difference to be sure. There it hung. Inconstant. Looming. Held.

Directly below the moon, on the land, lay a black lake. The irregular shaped pool rested on the centre right, across from the tree. Interrupted in its top centre by a still reflection of the moon. Opposed halves luminesce in the purple, red, yellow half light. The other half of the reflection; a shade version of its counterpart. At the same time beautiful, the abyss like pool, held in a pure, and a serene still. Ominously quiet; in its place; in the grand picture.

ON the exact opposite of the picture, centre left lay an opposing pool. This pool instead of black, had the sheerest golden metallic sheen. Again a reflection of the moon, stood in this pools top centre. Again the pool’s image of the half moon, had the purples, reds, and yellows light in it. Except here moon’s colours were set in a wayward, shimmering, liquid gold.

Michael was compelled to break away his viewing. A cigarette had to be made. So made, he smoked, and returned to his painting.

A striking expose feature dominated the left of the picture. It was neither wholly natural nor unnatural. It was both. A fusion of sorts.

The bottom left corner of the canvas began this feature.

Between the golden pool and the tree, two thin streams of purest crystal water into the land. Each side by side, in parallel flow. Reading the picture along the stream’s journeys, they hooked round and crossed over each other.

Then widened out, hooked around again, and crossed. In symmetry the two streams went into the picture, toward the horizon. Crossing, unwinding, crossing, unwinding, and on.

Like snakes in commensular harmony. They traversed each other toward the horizon distance, however as the two streams ‘moved’ from painting corner toward the horizon, its / their form gradually morphed in slow change.

Half of the way up the left of the picture, the snake streams evolved. They appeared to gradually, go from the horizontal over the land, to becoming vertical. As if leaving the land that had held them down; to upright. Still going into the distance in the crossing, and unwinding harmony. But now instead of across each other they went up and down, over and under each other. Whilst changing from the flat to the upright, another change was apparent. As the progression from land bound, to upright on the land it began to grow, so did the shapes. Not changing in size but in form.

Metamorphosizing from the smooth water like quality, in a rounded flow. They appeared hardened. Darker in colour. Changing from crystal clear to greying, and inward and onward shortly to a hard black. The shape from the rounded, in this gradient of change, became rigidified and rectangular. Until the two “snake” streams had become a duality of solid, black, interweaving, rectangular tubes. Soon after the change into the black tubes, they meshed as one. On beginning to mesh the tubes returned their flow, back to lying on the ground. As the “snake” streams had done. Horizontally, flat flowing to the horizon. In meshing, grounded, the stream tube changed once more.

Now into an electronic circuit board design, stretching off, to the horizon. The soldier of the circuit board, bright silver metallic green, contrasted on to the black base. The black base road led the metal circuits out of sight.

Ghostly in apparition a copy of the stream drifted parallel, just right of the solid stream. It was the exact same as the “snake” stream, in detail and parallel in direction. It differed only in that it was translucent. In its route, next the ‘solid’ streams, the ghost stream fell away to disappear behind the tree, bound no doubt for the horizon as its counterpart.

Perched central, amidst the tree’s branches a discreet bird sat. Almost insignificant, the black bird stood in the canopy. Small but there. It looked to one side. An aware tiny grey-blue eye, viewing ... towards the spectator seeing the picture. In shined, smoothed black apparel, the creature in satiate passivity; watched. Firmed in its place in the tree.

Below the tree, in the close foreground sat a cross-legged man. Sitting in a ring of clean white sand. Just big enough to encircle the width of the man. The circle of pure sand shone in a non-visible sun. Crystalline, tiny sparklets issued in the sand, encircling the sitting man.

Naked and white skinned, the man faced the tree. His back to the viewer. Only muscle tone, and body shape indicated that this man at all, though virtually androgynous. Both arms were raised in a firm hovering posture, to support his hands. Each hand clasped either side of his head. Naked man’s fingers’ stretched over the top of his skull. Palms pushing, or, maybe just holding the temples, as he embraced his head. The head completely bald. In woe or in astonishment – Naked man sat viewing whatever he saw, in his circle of sand.

Positioned below naked man, was the last feature of the painting. Or rather series of mini features. In the middle, at the bottom of the canvas, a series of stone slabs ascended from the earth. Each slab being rough hewn, pale, grey rectangles; planted upright in the ground. The slab directly below naked man’s left arm, was quite small. In proportion to the man, it was about as long as his hand. Nearly as thick as his wrist. It lay in the earth. To its right corner another stone, but marginally larger than the size of the first left hand neighbour stone. Again to the right of that, another stone slab, bigger still. In all there were eleven stone slabs, each slightly bigger than its counterpart to its left. The progression of slabs curved around to the right. With the largest stone to the far right of the picture. Underlining the left of the black pool.

The curve of the stones did give the distinct feeling, that, the naked man was the centre of the quarter circle. Maybe the epicentre being the tree. It wasn’t clear.

Being poised in a solid state, Michael relaxed back to comfortable sitting.

Taking an overall view.

The Tree and the Bird perched. The Streams’ winding on. The Pool’s; colour and reflection. The Sky with its moon. The Stones’ rise, or fall. The Naked man in the Sandcircle.

Michael brushed his chin with a cupped hand. Stroking his stubble face in bemusement.

“What a work!” Said out loud.

A moment more studying, and rubbing of the stubbly jaw.

“What depth. I didn’t know I could do such skilled work.”

A pause for a moment.

“The detail...the clarity!” In all earnest he chose and spoke the words.

“What does it mean?” He replied to himself.

Michael was in awe. In amazement. Puzzled and delighted.

For nearly half an hour he faced the picture. Shifting his body’s position from pose to pose. As he wondered about his work. Inspecting, gazing, storming his thoughts in glad satisfaction.

Technically it was superb.

Often, while looking, shaking his head. Bathing in the glory of the mastery he’d performed. The clarity, lucidity, he’d attained.

It appeared near three dimensional in parts. The Streams’ reached him. Some aspects were so real, it verged on frightening him. As he marvelled, tears welled the eyes. So happy, tinged with bitter sad feeling of all that had gone on, into the painting; his emotions overwhelmed. The painting truly touched his heart.

Choking into smiles he sobbed, and sobbed. Tears poured over his smiling face. Rocking back and forth on folded legs, sobbing in the smiles. Laughing while tears issued out further.

“What a work, what a work,” He cried out laughing, “What a Masterpiece !!” Came shouted in triumph.

*

He had to wash. Get cleaned up.

So Michael set about washing and scrubbing himself down in the bathroom. All the while his thoughts were with the painting and its meanings. With the marvel buoying him along.

Cleaned, and scrubbed Michael wandered the flat digging out cleaner clothes. Marvelling all the while he searched.

To food and nourishment. The kettle was put on the stove. Bread put under the grill, and tomatoes sliced.

Coffee ready in the mug. He sat for a few minutes on the wicker chair. Quite happy.

Sipping black coffee, and munching the grilled tomatoes on toast he was gleeful. To points where he couldn’t contain his joy, and choked on the toast in chuckles. Slugging coffee to wash the food down.

Fed, washed, and refreshed; again he sat looking on his creation.

Cigarette satisfying being puffed away at, he thought on the painting.

The Tree. The tree of life? The dying crown of branches at its top right. Solid, ancient, sturdy, knarled and beaten. Survived years of storms, insects, pestilences, and remained alive. But the crown. Was it dying? Resurrected? The Ivy holding onto it. Did the Ivy eat the tree? Parasite?

The Tree had so much life in it. Vivacious.

It was the centre of the picture.

The Bird within the tree, was so ominous it unnerved his sensitivities. The black watching Bird. Like it was watching for the next move, but in itself was happy to be perched and wait, inexorably. What did the Bird wait for? Why did it appear to wait? This impression of the spectator bird, waiting its moment of participation was chafing on Michael’s thoughts. He moved his thoughts away from the bird.

The Naked man. In a circle of sparkling sand. Encapsulated by the sand. Was he mourning? Joyful? Surprised? Despondent? It was a total mystery. Bald and naked and fully grown. Sitting cross legged in the circle. Nearing androgynous in his position, but a man nonetheless, even though no direct indication of the sex. The Naked man’s eyes; were they open, closed,...looking up, looking down? Did he see the tree? Was he blind? Was he wise? Real or apparition? At the least he was there. The Naked man plagued Michael in such a vexed way it made the black Birds mystery, now, appear pale. The aspects in the picture were so indefinite. Puzzling to the point of knawing. His thoughts had moved on.

Michael looked to the Moon. Smaller, easier to work on in his thoughts.

Almost immediately the Moon struck maelstrom to Michael’s thoughts again. Half full or half waning? Near half full. Was the Moon coming to fruition or fading away. Turning, coming or going!?

Tearing himself to an easier subject Michael pulled his gaze over to the sun sky. Again... sunrise, sunset? Beautiful though it was, captivating though it was; this was becoming unbearable.

Each item he saw cast more questions. The more he’d thought on each feature, the more it faded in any solid meaning. Everything looked half here and half there, and consequently nowhere in particular. Instead of giving him answers, answers that he wanted. Answers being the reason for the painting, instead of answers it gave more questions. Thinking on a particular question, gave more questions. It felt like battling a hydra. Each head cut off, gave rise to two heads in its place.

Scratching one side of his head of hair, in sharp quick puzzlement. Michael reclined back into the wicker chair.

The Pools. Opposite in colour. Same reflection of that half moon, Moon. One gold, clean, attractive. Abhorrent in its purity, it was too good. The other pool attractive in its smooth oily black, paradoxically ugly in its slime.

The stones were neither sinking or falling. Growing? Rising? Gravestones? Or...Biblical Tablets.

Michael now had his facial features somewhat askew.

The Streams running off into the horizon. Pure, perfectly placed. Up-ending, and morphing to the intriguing ornamental Circuits. The circuits were so appealing in their colours. This feature, for one, did appear to have affixed direction. That being away from the viewer to the horizon. Although this, also, wasn’t certain. Having to grasp onto some certainty, Michael thought now; - it did flow away. As for why to upend, and for becoming the road of Circuits, well? Nature to technology. This thought seemed grasp worthy.

Michael stood up. He went and made another coffee. Lighting another cigarette.

He swayed gazing in his puzzlement, around and about. In no time he found himself, once again, sitting in front of the painting. Attracted back into it, and the mysteries that it held for him.

Him pained, in his search, for the symbols’ meanings. Larger still the connections between the elements of the picture.

In timeless repose he shifted his position watching, depthfully extrapolating, in muse.

The connections were as open as the symbols. No certainty, here, there, everywhere and nowhere. Chaos meeting Law, Night meeting Day, Nature meeting Technology, Religious and Secular – all elements could be read into the frameless picture. Each idea met equally by its opposite, and vice versa the thoughts went on.

Standing away he looked on it.

From differing parts of the room he looked on it.

Even squinting he looked on.

The changing views brought into question more angles of questioning. As squinting at the picture he saw a hollow face made by the picture’s elements. Nose being the Tree; eyes by the Pools; mouth by the rising stones in a sly smile – an explosion of further metaphor erupted.

“Madness – mad, mad, madder!” Exclaimed Michael like expletive.

After much time Michael sat slumped in the wicker chair. He could do battle with this no more. He needed some certainty in this.

He bowed his head, caught in his hands; he cupped his head and looked through the floor, down. Thoughts evaporated to nothing for moments, he noticed on the floor an old cigarette butt between his feet, with the tiniest drip of red on it. He saw the bony feet either side of it.

It came to him. A flash of Satori insight.

“Facts!!” He jolted upright.

“Facts!” He said, “Facts are what I want, facts are what I need.”

“Facts I’ll get !” With that he started and grabbed about; searching for some clothes.

Frantically he tumbled through the wardrobe, the draws, the floor. Snatching and grabbing items of clothing to wear. In a few minutes he was dressed.

Catching his reflection in the window, and he saw himself still with splashes of paint over him.

Quickly he dashed to the bathroom, and scrubbed his exposed skin clean. Till raw and red he emerged.

Michael was caught in a one way driven urge. Clean enough on inspection; after all he needed only to be passable.

Coming out of the bathroom with hands clasping the crown of his head.

“Where is it !” He exclaimed in frustration.

“Where is that bloody Pass.”

*

The door shot bolt into the room, flying round in its hinges, loudly whacking the wall that held it. In came Michael with a clutch of books, wrapped loosely in crossed arms, staggered in lump footsteps back into the flat.

Turning when in the room, he caught the back of the door with his foot, and with expert sliding kick he flung the door into its frame.

Approaching the bed, he poured out the books onto the mattress. They bounced slovenly, in pallid disarray onto the bed.

“Right.” Michael spun in frenetic dance around, arms raised at his sides in disparate gesture. Surveying his room and contents and thoughts. His wilder spin falling to firm feet, he approached the kitchen.

A coffee and cigarette were necessary to this ritual.

Looking at each book he skimmed through to the relevant sections. Studying each section firstly on the folklore, physics, ecology, Buddhism and other esoteric books on psychology he gave them a glimpse read.

Unsure on how to take in the information, and put it all together, he decided on taking notes.

So with a pencil and pad of paper he jotted down whatever he thought relevant, and let thoughts come and go.

Putting the factual and fictional bits in a mix, he came up with notes on each of the symbols.

For the Moon he’d been wracking his poor head over whether it was waxing or waning. Whether lunacy or lycanthrope - it fitted his mind. He discovered the link between animal and human cycles linked with the lunar month, and the tidal pulls that went with it. This symbol, as many others was in far history often had significance as a portent, with oracles arguing this way and that on the meaning of the moon and its particular context. No definitive answer came to Michael.

The mythology and facts on tress didn’t give any direct answers either. Apparently the tree he’d painted most closely resembled an old Oak.

Again there were strong associations between this type of tree and ancient religion. Especially with the Celtic people, and the Druidic religion. For them it contained wisdom, strength and was sacred. This tied in with other ancient religions such as the Norse beliefs which linked the tree with their Gods.

Ecologically, the tree would let part of itself die off in the drought of summer. Also it could take hundreds of years to die. So whether it was in good health in summer time or it was dying, Michael couldn’t tell. It could pump hundreds of gallons of water out of the ground in one day, and was the most efficient pump known to man. This could mean in relation to the painting - its hardiness or the raid conditions it was in.

The Ivy climbing the Oak, could be any number of climbing species or subspecies it turned out. However it didn’t mean it was necessarily a parasite, it could well have been an ‘epiphyte’. Which would mean the vine was using the tree as a climbing frame, and the two plants were living in harmony.

The Bird perched in the Tree was a Crow of some sort, perhaps a Jackdaw. Interpretation of this part of the picture was very open. Crows being associated with death and murder. Jackdaws with stealing or stealth; cunning. Then again there was the anthropomorphic symbolic significance,....possibly.

Symbols – facts – figures – myths and theories.

Snakes – medicinal symbol? Poison? Eternity? Evil?

The Circle of standing stones was wide open, from Standing stones themselves to gravestones – rising from the dead? Rising of the dead? Sanctity? Eulogy?

Sand circle as a ritual Magic sand circles for warding off evil? Circle as the symbol of union or eternity?

All in all this didn’t mean anything to Michael. With this extra information, all he’d learned was that the mystery was even bigger than before.

The more he learned about these aspects of the picture the more lost he’d become. Were things coming or going? Growing or dying? Coming to fruition? Or starting or finishing ! ?

Pacing at a stomping rate Michael walked the floor of his flat. Up and down, up and down.

“Hell!” Was the cry.

*

“That’s it!” He shouted. “Be damned with it!”

Michael flumped onto his mattress bed.

After what could have quite been hours, of thinking and smoking and thinking himself to stupidity, he’d given up on his ‘masterpiece’ and what it meant.

The more he’d thought the more lost he had become. Rubbing his face to and fro with grubby hands. As he rubbed, his face raised a nearly happy, and quite definitely, a relieved expression.

He smoked.

Finishing his cigarette he felt extremely calm, and at peace. For the first time in a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time that this kind of tranquillity had settled on his troubled soul. Michael grinned placidly to himself.

“This is good.” Came the softly spoken words.

“This is good.” He repeated, affirming to himself. In his calm the solution seemed to drift into his mind.

“Balance.” Michael heard himself say. “Ha, that is what it means – balance.”

Michael searched over the picture again, it was so clear.

The picture wasn’t waxing or waning, death, rebirth, nature or technology. It wasn’t a linear thing at all. It meant everything should be in balance – harmony. Things in the picture were in balance. The Tree and the Ivy, the Moon’s cycle, the Pools – all of it. Male or female. Ying or Yang.

“Ha!” Exclaimed the man.

The picture meant balance, it meant balance to him, in his life.

The revelation took him in heights of pleasure. He should live in balance with all things. His life was extremist, from one pole to the other in his moods and actions. Madness was in being in extremes. In excess, in denial. In all things.

Michael could not believe himself. Was there a higher force at work here? He questioned to himself, or had he gone through one form of insane mind to another. He hadn’t gone and now wasn’t mad – he thought. He’d been bouncing like a Pinball from one extreme to another.

“What a fool I’ve been!” He laughingly exalted to the sky.

Well the ceiling anyway.

All his life, his tortuous mistakes fell in with this adoption of extremism. As it were it had been quite unconscious to him, but still the idea seemed true.

Perhaps if he walked slower, he’d be calmer. Perhaps if he slowed his rattled speech down he’d talk clearer, and not fire off stupid phrases. Perhaps if he ate slower he wouldn’t get indigestion and enjoy his food more. If he slept regularly every night and didn’t wallow in bed, he’d be less moody and more ‘with it’.

This insight swept Michael off his feet.

It seemed so simple, so obvious. Drink less, or at least not bingeing once a week, and then eating scraps of food until his next bit of money. That recipe of living was now obviously a road of despair, trouble and a pain. Stressing his body and mind to ruin.

Michael really had to sit down.

Perhaps that nihilistic type of life had been apparently good for a time, nowadays he could see how it spoilt life generally.

“Is this balanced? That is all I have to do. Catch myself from time to time, with – is this balanced?” Michael spoke to himself. “In whatever regard to life, I just ask myself – is this balanced?”

“Slow down, speed up, more, less – whatever. Aiming for balance and harmony. It can apply to anything, to anybody, eat more, eat less, more time at home, more time working. Because balance brings harmony, brings happiness, or at least happier living.” Michael was on a roll.

“I’m sure everyone knows in their heart of hearts what is too much and what is too little, if they ask themselves that question.”

“As William Blake says ‘the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom’,” Michael conjectured. “In the palace of wisdom is the meaning of balance.”

“Excess leads you there, but to continue, there must be balance.” Pause. “Am

I too far gone? Is this a Holy Grail of wisdom?”

“Am I right?”

END OF PART ONE