Tired, though.
If the hand could reach the last inch; but you would never convey in paint: in words perhaps, or phrased in music — modelled in clay — dough — in any other medium. (Your own sheer drudgery is always utter shit.)
But there were the occasions when, confronted with the board, his vision would leap out at him and he was liberated afresh.
There was this day he sensed his psychopomp standing beside him. At once he began scrabbling according to direction on his rickety palette-table. He was mixing the never-yet-attainable blue.
He pursed his lips to repeat the syllables which were being dictated: N-D-G-O. A thrumming of this stiff tongue. The gaps — nobody recognize. She insisted they would, apparently unaware of the precarious state of his faith.
Whether it was she or he who knew better he took his broadest, though frankly feeble brush, and patted the blue on: brush was leaving its hair behind, he noticed. All his life he had been reaching towards this vertiginous blue without truly visualizing, till lying on the pavement he was dazzled not so much by a colour as a longstanding secret relationship.
Now he was again acknowledging with all the strength of his live hand the otherwise unnameable I-N-D-I-G-O.
Only reach higher. Could. And will.
Then lifting by the hairs of his scalp to brush the brushhairs bludge on the blessed blue.
Before the tobbling scrawl deadwood splitting splintering the prickled stars plunge a presumptuous body crashing. Dumped.
Light follows dark not usually bound by the iron feather which stroked.
Must have been Rhoda coming her mouse running skittering round the skirting-board her white squeak snout exhaling desireful powdered words into what your mouth was.
‘Hurturl speak to murrh yer knotd ddead?’
Trying out claws on the lead one.
‘O God speak to me!’ (Rhoda too three counter out ha-ha!)
‘O my God o my darl my darlig Hurt die without my other.’
Her forehead a little scrubbing-board running moisture.
‘My luff o God gif gif I haf believed truly always yurss God.’
Answers weren’t showering on Rhoda’s mouse. God won’t be conned.
Don’s turn. ‘Come soon you sent: Rang the doctored ambulance. Miss Courtnee?’
Rosa’s only moans.
‘Lookther paint ig.’ Don the Painter-Heartstudent-Harkangel. ‘This is thiss iss hizz Miss the paint iss.’
Why all the hissing and whizzing might piss it out no the INDIGO decisive it.
‘My dearest God.’
‘Miss Courtney don’t dead the live will live will tell you see Miss Courternee?’
‘Oh my God my live my lovely.’
‘Miss Courtney the bell I tell.’
‘Whoever it is they won’t dare!’
‘Miss Couter? Soon here.’
‘Yes Don. The amble. My dear-rest Lord.’
O rose Rose.
Too tired too end-less obvi indi-ggoddd.