The Gypsy Woman(John T Moore as Angelo Soliman) THE GYPSY WOMAN

The tri-folded paper hung loosely in the lanky man’s hands. His deep eyes stared into nowhere. Nosing the .40 caliber against his own nose, he slumped on the old sofa, imbedded in a cluttered room of canvas, paint, easels, and just stuff. A whole lot of no particular kind of stuff. Even in this state his gaze was piercing. Just piercing into nothingness. He had swam out into the deep of life and drifted to the drowning point. Now he was overcome with the dull ache of failure. What had his life been for or about? Sure he’d done a few things but always under constant struggle and never truly crested that wave of success. Worry was a constant companion. Somewhere inside he’d always felt like he was slipping, slowly slipping into a somewhere he didn’t think he’d want to be. About halfway through his life and just as lost as he was at the beginning of the first half. At least then there was more excitement. Now things just were. The gun had grown warm in his hand.

He took a deep breath and hoisted the paper onto his lap. It was a rejection letter from yet another gallery. Enough of these had come through his front door - enough to wallpaper a room. They were all impaled on one of those antique receipt spikes on his desk in the corner. Every single one. Some kind of reminder of his shortcomings that he hoped would possibly serve as motivation to “make it happen”. Up to this point it hadn’t happened and his strength was gone. Resolve had left and buried his faith in the process. Not only was there a poverty of resources but a void of the worse kind - the poverty of spirit.

A knock at the door brought him temporarily back to the surface. Only his eyes moved at first until the knock grew more intense followed by a familiar voice threatening to beat the door down. He pushed the gun under the sofa, dropped the paper, and dragged himself to the door and peeped out without fully opening it up. It was his younger brother – his whole successful good looking lady-pulling self. The herringbone Brooks Brothers suit made him look like a Forbes magazine add. This was his brother’s usual picture of affluence. They were from the same mother but definitely a different mold.

“What’s up?” his brother asked. Throwing his hands up in gesture.

The artist turned and walked back into the room without saying a word with his mouth. His brother knew him well and the absent look in his eyes said it all. He pushed open the door and followed him in. Truly he looked like a tired dog. And if he’d had a tail it definitely would have been between his legs.

“Want to go get something to eat?” his brother asked without looking at him.
He dropped back into the leaning paint-splattered sofa, still silent.
“Man what’s up with this place and you? I know artists may not be the most organized people on the planet but this is about ridiculous. You okay?”
Without a word the artist handed his brother the sheet of paper. After reading it his brother slid it into the trash next to the sofa. The artist got up, retrieved it and took it over to the spike and impaled it with the rest of them.
"What’s that going to do, huh? Why are you saving those things?"
“Why not?” the artist replied, “Why the hell not?”
“Man you got to do something different, I mean, not in terms of your art thing. They’re just not ready for your stuff yet. You’re ahead of your time. I’m talkin’ about life man, just a change in life pace or something. Get up, get out, and…live.”

The artist sighed deep and turned his whole body away from his brother. How many times had he heard that one, along with, you’re so talented, and I love your work. If he had a dollar every time he’d heard that, he'd be renting planes to Bill gates. Bottom line is compliments don't pay bills.
“I hear you, li’l bruh.” His reply was dry.
"What are you doin’ this weekend?" His brother queried.
“Something different.” His eyes went to the floor beneath the sofa. The tip of the handle of the gun was showing.
“Alright big brother. That sounds like a plan. I’m open to hang out if you want to.” He was peering out the window. “Hey something happened down the street, let’s go down there real quick. You hear those sirens. I saw people headed that way. I didn’t know what was goin on."
“I ain’t there man.” The artist replied.
“You didn’t hear all those sirens?” With that his brother walked over to the partially open door and stepped out on the porch.
“Man, it’s a whole lot of people down there. I can’t really see what’s goin on from here but it looks like a bad accident. I’m about to drive through - hey it’s a coroner’s car, somebody must’ve gotten killed. C’mon man, let’s go on down there.”

His brothers words sounded like some language he didn’t speak coming from under a pile of blankets.
"What? Naw, I got stuff to do. Plus I ain’t tryin’ to hear about nobody else's shit right now. I’m busy in my own stuff. I ain’t got nothing for nobody else’s shit.”
His brother stared at him a minute in disbelief.
“Man, I know you going through it but how are you going to sit there and even say some ignorant stuff like that. Somebody could be dead down there."
“Man, somebody’s getting’ dead everywhere. So what’s your point?” He stood up abruptly, hoping his brother could see, really see where he was at this point.
“That's some cold ass shit, you hear me. You're selfish and don’t care bout nothing but your own sad self. Stay up in this stale ass rat hole and veg. When you wake up, do us a favor and go back to sleep.”
“I plan to dear brother, believe me, I plan to, soon as you roll on down there to see if you can lend a good hand at saving the world. Maybe there’s some damsel in distress you can rescue now and screw later.”
“I’m out on that note, bruh.”
His brother disappeared through the door and down the steps, leaving the door partially open.

The artist dropped back to the sofa, face down. Arms and legs draped over the sides like tentacles of a giant octopus hanging over the edge of a small boat. His hand went underneath the edge. Silence was drowned out by the incessant noise in his head as he fingered the cool gun. It was just about dusk and he could see the flashing lights reflecting through the window on a sliver of wall. His mind wandered into the mesmerizing lights as his eyes closed and opened at odd intervals in a ritualistic dance with his tortured thoughts. The words his brother had flung at him stung as tears welled up in his eyes. Not so much because of what he’d said about him but his response to his disregard of human life. Couldn’t he see what he was going through? and there he was thinking about somebody he didn’t even know. What kind of mixed-up was that? His younger self appeared, paint splattered and driven. As hungry as they come. Paint flowed through his veins in living color. The world would change at the end of his brush, the magic wand in the hands of the illusionist, the artist. The image faded, washed away by a welling of hot tears that spilled onto the worn sofa.

It’s over. It has to be. Where could he go from here? Nobody can make people want their work. Compliments meant nothing at this point. In fact he felt that if anyone else said how talented he was he was going to tell them to direct their compliments into his pocket. Honestly, after a while that compliment shit gets really old. Thoughts of his own demise kicked in. What would his brother do, they were so close. How would it hit his mother, his father, and sisters, former students, and coworkers, and friends? Would his neighbors talk on the news flash about how strange he was anyway? Would they be glad he was gone. “I’m a pretty nice guy overall”, he inserted into the mind reel. How would the papers read? Who’d be at his funeral? Who’d really care at that point? Would his art finally be worth anything or would it end up in somebody’s garage amidst gas cans, dust, sports stuff, and outdated clothes waiting for a trip to a goodwill store? The music came on in his head as the pity party kicked into full effect. He fell into the abyss of the nightmares that had overrun their shores.

His eyes pulled open with the light rap on the door. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard it at all. Then it came again a little louder. He was silent for a few more raps.
“Come on in, man.” He grunted out thinking his brother had seen the error of his ways and come back. No one came in. He looked over at the window. The streetlights had come on. He rose up and looked over the back of the sofa. How long had he been asleep?
“What you doin’ man?" He called out, getting up.
He turned toward the door. It had been open the entire time he was out cold. A blue shirt moved out of sight. His brother’s was white. Hopping to the door, real stifflike, he peeked out through the opening. A young woman stood there in a stained oversized shirt and white flowered capris. She was slight built but not skinny. Her large eyes went straight through him. She just stood there staring like she was expecting something.
He’d been in this neighborhood for quite a while now and he hadn’t had any problem with the prevalent homeless crew or the crack heads.
“Can I help you?” His voice was short and coarse.
Her lips moved but she didn’t speak right away.
“Can I help you, Miss?” He said slow and sarcastic, not allowing much time for an initial response from her.
“Uhmm, I…I…” She stammered.
“I don’t have money, I’m sorry” He hollered out.
“I’m not asking for money, just a place to be for awhile before…”
“Listen lady, I really don’t think you need to be walkin’ ‘round here this time of evening knockin’ on doors and stuff. People get shot around here for less than that. But if you need to get yourself together for a minute, you can sit on my porch for a little while, then you got to get on up. It’s too much stuff goin’ on around here today.”
“Just for a while.” She said.
“Yeah, you can sit there for awhile.” Something in her voice plucked at his heartstring. In his heart he knew she wasn’t a crackhead. However something in his head screamed hell naw man, she’d got to be a crack head or hooker or something! Don’t let that bitch hang ‘round here. Well maybe if she’s a killer, that’ll save me a worry. Something about her spoke to him. Curiosity kicked in like crazy.
“Can I sit inside if…” she began, her eyes speaking more than her mouth but in a language he couldn’t quite comprehend.
“Listen, you know I can’t do that, lady. This is the real world, and people don’t do this kinda stuff for real. It’s dangerous and I don’t even know why I’m explaining this to you, cause I don’t know you, or owe you anything. So in truth It would be best for you to head on out…please, before I end up hurting your feelings.”
His words sounded empty even to him. That’s not who he was and by the look in those eyes of hers she knew it too. His mind was in a deadlock with his heart. He looked for something on her that would turn the tide so he could flip and slam the door in her face. Nothing but silence from her and a peace that beckoned to him. The tide turned.
“Alright then, you can come in just long enough to use my phone, but don’t touch anything.” He eyed her keenly. Then remembered that she never asked to use a phone. Too late now. She looked past him, never meeting his glare, and walked in bringing a cooling breeze with her. She carried nothing in her hands. Her smell was of salt and lavender. A single long ebony braid trailed down the middle of her back. The stains on her shirt appeared purple in the dim lit room.
“Thank you for being so kind.” she said as she sat down on the rickety sofa. He picked up his phone from the other side of the room and walked around a minute wondering what the hell he was doing letting some strange chick up in his place. But then again what did he have that a crack head would steal, unless she was a paint sniffer.
“Who are you?” he asked, handing her the phone.
“Who am I? You mean what’s my name or what do I do or what…?”
“Never mind, never mind all that. The last part – your name?”
“Yes I have a name.” She said.
“Okay…?” He said, waiting.
“Okay what?” She responded.
Frustrated, he got up and was about to walk away into another room, thought about it and turned right back around. There was no way he was taking his attention off this woman who just wandered up to his doorstep. Admittedly he felt uneasy, but not uneasy enough to put her out just yet. He couldn’t put his finger on why. It was almost dark and things could get pretty rough around the hood on weekends, especially Friday night. Something about her seemed really innocent but in his mind she was suspect. In his chest she was here for a reason. Everything happens for a reason.
“What do you do lady who won’t say her name?” He asked.
“Lady who?” she asked.
“You know what,” he said, “That’s what I’m callin’ you – Ladywho.
“Lady what?” she was smiling a little now.
“He shook his head and sat down in the chair adjacent to her. Something of a smile trying to form on his own face. She was playing, trying to lighten the mood, and he knew it. Immediately she popped up, walked around the room and over to a table.
“What are you looking at, or for?” He asked
She began to read a piece of paper on the wall.
“Life is a journey of creative exploration. Passion is my life
blood. Art is my gypsy woman…” She reached out to touch it.
“What are you doing, woman? I thought I told you not to touch anything.” He spoke a little more firmly across the room.
“I haven’t touched a thing kind sir.”
“Art is my gypsy woman….” She continued with emphasis, ignoring his outburst.
“…Colorful, passionate, spontaneous, and ever ready. She is
living, therefore possessing the ability give to or reduce the
quality of life. Art is your gypsy woman.”
As she read the last sentence she turned to face him, her deep brown eyes washing over him. Something inside his head formed a huge question mark.
“Those words,” She said, “are possibly the most beautiful words that ever came out of my mouth.”
“Well I admit you did a good job bringin’ my words to life.” He was surprised by his own generosity.
“Gypsy woman huh?” She said under her breath.
Her eyes lingered on him a little too long for his comfort before his took refuge in another spot in the room. She walked over to his easels and drawings. Her neck stretched forward as she stared as the works. She moved from painting to painting. Although her walk was bouncy it was light, and the floor didn’t move at all.
“Do you dance. Are you a dancer?” he asked.
“Yes,”
“Finally a straight answer.” He said in a low voice. “What kind of dancing do you do.”
She picked up a brush and played it along some of the painted canvases. He tensed slightly.
“Are all these for sale?” She asked innocently.
“Yep.”
“What are the numbers at the bottom for?”
“The year I painted each piece.”
“Then why are there so many over here from years back. Did you not want to sell them?”
“It don’t work like that. The selling of art is complex. There are a whole lot of variables in the business of art. You got to hit the right market for your work and to make it big they gotta let you in.”
“Work. Why do you call it work?” she asked
“Art is my work. That’s what I do. I do it for a living, you know, sell my stuff. It’s work, artwork. That’s just what it’s called.” His voice showed his agitation.
“Oh.” She said innocently as he looked back over her shoulder like a child, mischief in her eyes. She grabbed several tubes of paint, unscrewed the tops, and squeezed them into her hands. Suddenly, to his utter disbelief, she began to lay large strokes of paint on his finished works. His heart leaped ahead of him as he came off the chair headed toward her.
“Bitch, what you doin?” He broke for her like a madman.
By the time he made it over to her she had skirted around the table and continued to slather his work in paint beyond his reach. For several minutes or so he chased her around the room. Every piece she passed got strokes of paint.
“Wait!” he paused while she paced on the other side of the table laughing in pure joy. ”Just hold up.” He said. The heat in his chest was like nothing he’d ever felt. He was gasping for air.
She, still breathing normally, pranced from side to side, poised to play again.
“What do you think you’re doing? Look what you messed up.”
“You said they weren’t selling. So they were just in here all stuffy and taking up space. Needed some change.” Despite the innocence in her voice he was boiling.
“Dammit!” He started toward her.
She raised the paintbrush in the air and he froze. Her smile wild with excitement. His hands went up in surrender to another tactic.
“Okay, Okay…j-just put down the brushes…please.” He began to talk calm to her as she painted her hands and arm and kept an eye on him.
“Listen, let’s just put the stuff down and you can help me wipe off all this work before that paint dries on them. Okay…please?”
She was humming softly while squeezing more paint into her hand.
“Not okay.” She turned slightly and smeared a painting.
At that instant, having eased close enough, he sailed across the table and grabbed her around the waist, both of them crashing to the floor. Canvas, easels, and paint tubes went everywhere. She wrestled back, her hands moving like live paintbrushes all over him. Finally he had her pinned to the floor, her arms bound in his grasp to her body. It took his entire weight to hold her down. Her ample butt, not so noticeable before, was pressed into his crotch. She rolled it slightly. His heart skipped a beat or two.
What now Rembrandt? She teased.
“I want you to get up slow and I’m goin’ to walk yo’ narrow ass to the door.” He was breathing hard and wet. She hadn’t broken a sweat.
“Just my ass…How are you going to take just my ass to the door? Besides, you’re ahead of me in the getting up category.” Again she rolled her behind, pressing it into him.
He got up quickly, never releasing his grip on her arm and yanked her to her feet –hard. By the look on her face he knew that it hurt. But she didn’t cry out or respond as such. Paint was all over the place.
“Can I paint this one?” She asked, reaching childishly for yet another painting with her free arm.
No! He screamed, snatching her again and repining her arms with his.
“Art makes art.” She whispered while he stalled to catch his breath.
“What you say?” he asked looking at the side of her face.
“Art makes art.” She said a little louder as she turned her paint smeared cheek to him and rubbed her face all over his. He pulled his head away and attempted to get to the door in the same motion. She didn’t stop. Somewhere in the face painting her lips found his and she kissed him softly.
“You’re hurting me.“ She spoke into the side of his face. Her face was flushed and slightly pallid.
“He released his grip a little. When she didn’t move, he let her go entirely. Neither one of them moved away. She reached down and took his hand, caressed it, lifted it to her chest then to her face. She rested his fingers on her lips.
“Can I hold a brush?” She half whispered.
For some crazy reason he handed her one. He was like a man under a spell. She placed it in his hand, filled it with paint and guided him to a blank canvas. With her movements she guided him across the plain of canvas with broad strokes of living color. The dancer was obvious now but it was much more than her movements that climbed somewhere deep down in the basement of his psyche and summoned his child to come up and play. She also roused the man in him - fully. The canvas was her here and now focus. He was tense, so tense his hands shook. Usually he was so used to a plan to all of his works.
“Just let go.” she whispered, “and move…move with life. Play with it. Play with me. Don’t make art. Let art make you. Now close your eyes and play with me.
He did so briefly but couldn’t keep them closed for long.
“I’m used to seeing what I paint. Art is about vision you know.”
“Close your eyes.” She said again.
“Then all I’ll make is a mess. I need to see.” He said.
“Vision is beyond your eyes and art comes before the canvas.”
With that she leaned her full head of hair back into his face covering his eyes. Her body began to dance against his ever so sensually.
“Feel that?” She asked.
He answered with his movements. His strokes were slow at first then broad and heavy, like nothing he’d experienced before. Her heartbeat played heavy in his chest as her hips rolled into him. With each stroke the feeling grew more intense. The wetness flowed freely. Every fiber of his being felt her and the canvas simultaneously. Something unhooked inside of him and suddenly with the movement of their bodies he could see. Not with his eyes but with a deeper part of himself that knew beyond knowing. Colors were everywhere. He could feel heat in his veins, cool blues and greens flowed into his nostrils like spring rain and he tasted the sweet and salt of her blossoming. Over and over they painted until sleep swallowed them in.

The clock on the wall was louder than usual. He could hear people laughing and the birds seemed to have gathered just outside the window in a midmorning serenade. Only late summer, the trees outside rustled autumn songs. His entire body felt alive to every breath he took. The air was delicious. Rolling over on the floor, he looked for the face that could have easily been a delusional dream, but the meeting of her eyes in his revealed it real anew. He had never in his life experienced feelings like this. It was as though he could hear and taste through every pore of his body. Everything had a hue more intense than he’d ever seen. She stared at him from the chair across the room, paint splattered in abstract all over her long legs.
“Still want me to go?" She said in a raspy whisper.
“Never” he said, amazed at his own words and this entire strange drama unfolding.
She smiled and turned fully toward him. She had rolled aluminum foil, strung painted macaroni and all kinds of found objects into makeshift jewelry. A colorful picture she was.
“And who are you today?” He asked her laughing.
She froze for a moment in suspended animation, then placed her hands in the sides of her face and spoke in more of a question than a statement
“Your gypsy woman?" She said, standing, beautiful beyond a thousand words that spoke words.
“Indeed you must be. I couldn’t have imagined you more so.” He said.
“And what can I do for you on this fine morning, kind sir?” She asked.
I’d like to do what we did last night and earlier this morning. We got time right?"
“Ooooh, time. Time is the bridge between breath and glory. I will make the span of that bridge all the more brief and you may have your taste of heaven again.”
“Damn, I mean, lord, aahhh. Whew that’s some serious poetics.”
“Art is as art gives. Speak to me.” She said crawling over and kneeling between his legs.
“I don’t think I can come up with that stuff.” He said.
“Don’t think it, feel it.” With that she moved her knees up the insides of his thighs and brought them together at the point. He breathed deep. Her large round earrings hanging near the sides of his face.
“Uhh let me see…” he started.
“Beyond the darkness.” She added. Your destiny is your light tower above the many rushing waters, so I shine.”
“And…and I am your moth.” He finally got out.
She smiled big then they both burst out in a fit of laughter, rolling around on the floor like new puppies. In the melee somebody’s arm hit the remote control. The television set blared into their pure world.
And now for the top stories of the weekend…, the reporter started, flashing lights behind him.
Suddenly animated in a different way she lunged for the TV and hit the power button.
”What was that all about?" He asked
“Our time is our time, and temporal truths that people call news will only rob us of present thought which in turn steals our time in the now.” She smiled and bit his cheek as she straddled his stomach.
“Let’s just see what the news is.” He continued.
She grabbed his wrists and pinned him to the floor.
“The news is you … and the greatness that you are.” She said.

Pulling her knees up under his arms, she laid her head on his chest. Silence settled in as he started to think about what he’d planned for the weekend. The heavy weights strapped to his will that had pulled him beneath the surface of hopes glassy expanse. Despite their exquisite rendezvous, every one of his problems was still intact. His overactive mind gently tapping ever rapping on his heart’s door. He turned his head to see the flared nostril of the .40 caliber still peering out from beneath the sofa. Perhaps she’d followed his eyes because she reached for the gun at the same moment he saw it. Grabbing it, she held it up like a stinky sock.
“What are you doing with this thing?” She asked.
“Insurance.” He said in a low voice.
She spun the piece around in her hand, toying with it like a child. Then she gripped it with the barrel facing her with both hands and squinted down the opening with one eye.
“Hey!” he reached for the gun.
Quickly she pulled it away clumsily and made a face at him. She pulled out the clip and counted out seven bullets, popped the clip back in, shoved the gun back under the couch, hopped up and motioned for him to follow her. He watched her walk away. Her round bottom moving in time to the ticking clock.
“Come, come, Mr. Art god.” She said.
He rolled onto his feet and followed.

She took out a canvas, glue, gesso, and lots of paint and began to assemble the items - her look intense but with a smile. Soon she took his hands and began to guide him in the process. After awhile, that something in him let go again and he flowed into the work and into her. With each tick of the clock the time unfolded. They played at art all weekend. Many of his stoic notions about art shifted into a fluid living movement of expressive emotion. Truly she was his gypsy woman in the flesh.

Saturday evening they again collapsed in a colorful heap on the floor, still wearing the same clothes. They had been in the small studio apartment all day long, snacking on odds and ends he had around. She seemed fine with it. He didn’t mind either because another part of him was being fed. This was living. Thoughts of suicide had ebbed with this high tide of fulfilment. Now he was fully in the arms of life just as she was in his resting peacefully. She‘d become less active as the day wore on. Napping longer and just seeming to get great joy from any kind of interaction with him. Now she slept and he soon followed.

Sunday morning’s arrival was signaled by church bells. Seven times they chimed and he felt every one of them all the way down in the creases between his toes. He was awake now in so many ways. He turned expecting to see her at the table again with one of her never ending surprises. The table was empty. He rose from the floor and called out to her, feeling her presence. There was no answer. Now he called louder. He searched around thinking she was once again being her playful self. After a while his search turned serious then frantic. In the middle of the room he stopped. The door was still bolted shut. He rushed over, unlocked it and stepped onto the porch. The morning sun greeted him in full glory. There was no sign of her save a piece of macaroni jewelry that clung to his own tangled hair.
He pulled the door shut and stumbled to the sidewalk and down the street asking passers by if they’d seen a girl wearing all kinds of colorful made-up jewelry. That ceased when people started looking at him like he was crazy. As he crossed the street at the corner, broken glass crunched under his feet, unnoticed. The telltale signs of an accident were all around him. He felt queasiness in his stomach as he walked through the area. Confused and breathless, he folded onto a bench across from the corner. Faces stared back at him from a crumpled Saturday’s paper in the wire mesh garbage can. He looked around, pulled it out and shook off the remnants of somebody’s breakfast. The headlines burned into him: ACCIDENT CLAIMS LIFE. He was a little remorseful because of his response to the news when his brother had mentioned it on Friday. He’d not thought it that serious – wrapped too tight in his own stuff. Now he read the story with lead in his chest. Someone had died. Part of the paper was covered in stains hiding the photographs.
Shameless now, he burrowed though the garbage and found another front page. His heart folded up in his chest. Near the bottom, beneath a photo of the three-car pile-up was a photo of a girl - a beautiful girl: not just of physical beauty but a beauty beyond the now. He knew because he had spent the weekend with her. It couldn’t be. This was impossible. His heart played jagged beats and the air made strange sounds forcing its way up out of his lungs. He started to hyperventilate. Quickly he stood up. Dizziness blurred his vision and his legs betrayed him. The bench stopped his fall. Slumped there, he stared at the photograph that seemed to look in to the depths of him. After a while he was able to gather himself, realizing he was only partially dressed. Frantically he started running. Everything was a painted blur.

Back at his place he burst though the door. His brother, immaculately dressed as usual, cigar in hand, was standing in the open room.
What’s up with you? Where you been with your door standing wide open.”
He grabbed his brother’s hands and placed the paper in it. Only able to point at it.
“Yeah, that’s the accident I saw on Friday. I told you then, I thought it was something serious, but you didn’t want to hear it. I tried to call you later but you didn’t answer your phone. I left messages but didn’t bother coming by because you said you has some special plans this weekend. Didn’t want to interfere.” His brother rattled.
The artist stared at his brother in wonder and went over to the phone, still where she’d placed it. There were several messages.
“What, what…” he started, still short of breath.
“What got to you?” His brother completed the sentence and walked away. “Bro this stuff is mad crazy”, he said, gesturing toward the walls and sides of the room. I’ve never seen you do this kind of stuff before. I’m loving this new direction. It’s so…so alive, I guess the word is. How did you get all this done in such a short time?”
"Time - that span between breath and glory.” The artist whispered out loud.
His brother didn’t hear him as he walked around the room as if in a gallery, looking at the multitudes of colorful paintings and making constant comments.

The artist came back to himself and looked around the room. Sure enough, everything was different, more alive. The walls, lamps, even his old refrigerator was decorated in breathing color. All the rejection letters had been painted and now served as a wallpaper masterpiece. He sat down, almost unable to take it all in – including his breath - the events of the weekend, and everything he was seeing with his own eyes. Rational thought could not find a limb to perch on. He was confused. He called over to his brother who was too engrossed in the work to hear him. However, something in his spirit told him not to speak of anything that had taken place this weekend. Perhaps this was what he’d heard referred to as an insperience. It has been said that sometimes the power of these messages are lost when we speak them too soon or at all. People need only see or feel the result of our actions stemming from the message. Some things are better just kept inside yourself for many obvious reasons.

Six months later he stood in a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in an uptown gallery. Hands were everywhere, grabbing his, asking for autographs. The room hummed with patrons, critics, reporters and the curious. Representatives and owners from top galleries slipped him cards in hopes of signing him. Several had even brought contracts for exclusivity, which he had confidently turned down. A coffee table book deal of his new works had been discussed in the preceding weeks.

All of this was beyond his wildest dreams. Truth be told, most of the pieces had been sold before the show had even opened. It was almost unbelievable. However for him, unbelievable was a word that had taken flight some time ago. At this point he could and would believe anything his heart opened up to receive. So often we question those things that do not fit into our logical four walls of life and in doing so, explain away the revelations. Thereby robbing the message of its power and missing the turn in the road on our life journey to our place.
Contrary to our belief it does not have to be a grueling task. More often than not, it is an unfolding of what is already present. All we have to do is open up and allow it to come through. The only real fight we have is through all of the conditioning we’ve picked up in our state of everyday survival. Life is less a matter of survival as it is development. Each step in the will of development will move us closer to our destiny. Don’t ever forget that the power is in the process. So play this game of life and let the risks take you.

The walls were full of art he had produced in play. Several pieces brought unprecedented purses for the gallery. As he stared beyond the art, the people, all the glitter, pomp, and circumstance, his eyes settled upon a piece that, although it was not for sale, had been requested for a price that would have been many years salary. He refused to part with this painting because it was a vision of his inspiration – colorful, passionate, spontaneous, and ever ready. A vision of life possessing the ability to give to or reduce the quality of life. It was a visual manifestation of his gypsy woman.

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