17 January 2024

Old man with a headdress.

Touching, looking, not able to see one’s own look.
Vibration, waves, moving up and down, a broken pattern,
a certain amount of order and chaos intertwining.
Forgotten layers lying dark and deep, void and without form.

An old black man that looks like Thabo Mbeki,
people talking to each other, finding each other,
someone talking loudly, or opening their mouth wide,
but there is no voice.

The painting touches me; it touches my mind. I feel the painting somehow — complex, dynamic, fluid.
It rakes my mind with its fingers, sets my grooves, aligns my vibration, adjusts my wavelength.
It speaks a language I don't seem to understand, a realm of existence not made for me.
Is this my hell?

The ripples on the surface of the water distort the lightwaves.
There is torsion of the light, and I can see my look.
Can I see my monster looking back at me? Can I see me,
my face with a 'more mirror', or without something specular?

Where is inside and outside?
Can I meld into this painting, mine?
This painting has a white beard, like an old man.
God? Do I fear being an old man?

Becoming the face I despised so often in my youth when I was a child,
the face that reprimanded, scolded, corrected,
made me leave my realm of imagination,
where all was mine

where I did not need to share,
where I was content and happy.
I left a part of myself there.
Some primal part.