artist-colour

   I don't think in words, but rather in colors. In shapes, maybe, but never words. Everything I say one can only hope the world understands. They usually don't. Well, at least I understand and that's enough for me. Who cares if no one else understands me? That's not my problem.
    Thinking color has done me a favor; I know every color that has ever existed, and even some that hadn't and I recognize all at will, which can get me in trouble when someone who doesn't know them as closely as I do wants to prove me wrong. I'm never wrong. I'm never wrong. All those so-called artists, thinking they know more than I do, trying to interpret as I do. Only I know what I really mean. I don't need someone else to tell me. How jade! They make me so burgundy!
    Museum's make me pastel, too. I try not to go to them too often because of all the mismatched emotions... the most famous "artists" have no clue what they're saying. Dali makes me scream; he's so flaming in his beige --too much pain for just one person...
    I think Rembrandt was a druggie... all those blues and greens, sometimes pink on a bad trip, but never, ever any kind of color that would make me think he had any idea what he was doing. A spaced-out mister, that one. Maybe it was LSD? Was that invented yet? It makes you see weird color-schemes, or at least that's what they tell me. I've never had anything like that happen when I'm trippin'... maybe I'm just different. Yeah, that's it... I'm different, better.
But I think it was probably opium, back then they all did opium. No wonder they lived such short lives, all that ocher in their graying systems. Maybe he was a drunk, too. They all were, are. There aren't any good artists that aren't... I guess that's a joke, too; they weren't all that golden to begin with.       They didn't even know what they were trying to say... making their work look mauve and all that yellow, without a care to what it was they were trying to say in their drug-induced periwinkle hazes. Blue! That makes me cerise! Why can't they just all cobalt, all those people who think they know how I think, what I think! Paint it!
    I remember when I was in school in Graysville, they had no clue. First year art with all those charcoal sketches, how could anyone express himself with black and white? That's just too mundane, I need twenty million vibrant colors (and a fresh bottle of wine to make me forget the words they made me learn!).
I wish I could make it all go azure, just me and my art. All the colors of spring and fall, the only two seasons with real color. The other two seasons are just bronze remakes of the same theme. Flaming oranges, and not a pastel in sight. Those would be the tawny days.
    And what about purple? No one understands the depth of purple emotion; no one knows what purple means; wrapping presents, painting cars and fingernails. They say they like the color... how can someone LIKE that color, of all the wonderful colors in the world?    I saw someone the other day with purple contacts. Purple contacts! Draw it! That's the worst emotion! That is the worst sort of thought, that is the color of all the things I can't say, all those things no one wants to say...
    One more drink, one more swipe of the ruddy brush, and then I'll go to bed. Red! This is the longest black!
    I'm definitely going to have a headache tomorrow; I should know my limits... why do I need limits? I'm different than all those other people, all those silver people with crimson fevers; they need ashen limits. I'm different.
    Maybe some more green, a splash of envy to top it off, maybe a little ginger to dance across the page, then to bed. Then to bed for me. Let's forget the rest of those so-called artists --those freaks that make things look pastel instead of making them feel vibrant. Blue, green, navy, jade, sapphire, emerald, cerulean, seaweed, cobalt, olive, azure, lime. Good night.