Friday, June 23, 2006

Night People.

I reckon certain members of society have evolved over the years to stay awake and alert throughout the night to keep watch and warn about danger, of predatory animals, storms and enemy warriors creeping up on them, otherwise the human tribe would've been wiped out long ago. Especially wildcats had to be guarded against, they picked off so many of our ape-men ancestors, they loom up terrifyingly in our collective psyche. And let's not think about the monsters that lurk in the night of big, modern cities, ready to jump upon the unwary for their wallet or their flesh; such metropolises couldn't function without night-workers keeping it all functioning and semi-protected.

The other night I dreamt I was in some utopianist game-park, where humans and animals lived in respectful harmony, and a huge mangy leopard approached me, limping, one paw held out. I was absolutely mortified and cringed as the creature growled and leapt upon me. I thought I was finished but the wildcat merely wanted to wrestle with me playfully and have me caress his matted fur and maybe heal him of his wounds. That wildcat was me and I need to heal myself, then have no fear. I woke up feeling ebullient, happy that the cat had come to me, my major totem going way back, like I'm one of the 'cat-people'. (All very "hippy psycho-babble" according to the movie 'Thumbsucker' but it feels like an historic/hysteric fit to me, my madness and I couldn't give a shit.)

So this week my muse came back to me, my spirit soared, I took off in flights of fancy and started a new painting, a big close-up scene of a psychedelic Kings Cross on New Year's Eve 1979/80 outside the Pink Pussycat Strip Club. Because of my weekend nightshift I can't return to a normal sleep pattern, I roam my apartment thru the dark hours trying to find the spirit to create. At last this week I alighted upon cloud 7 and got back to painting, for the sheer joy of it, the ecstasy of putting the idea into narrative and colour, not for fame, career, money, a competition, an Art Fair, a doting patron. No, just because I want to, from my guts, heart and brain, like a deranged brat who lets nothing get between him and his work, not even Love. It's very easy to feel defeated in this world of vacuous celebrity, the body/mind droops, is lacklustre, gutless, the world comes down on many try-hards like a ton of shit and kicks us in the teeth for good measure. No wonder every street corner has its resident loonie jabbering at the moon. It's hard to stay afloat.

I dread going back to the hospice at the weekend, I'm responsible for so many people, life and death issues with a thousand and one things to think of, oldies bleeding, shitting, fitting, vomiting, pissing, purulent ulcers dripping, it's so icky and tedious yet I'm glad I force myself to go to the Aged Care Facility, it makes me confident, and real, and brave, and full of life in the face of the one possible god to rule this universe, Entropy. I'll dare to take on any wild project my fevered soul can dream up, painting/writing risque stuff, subversive, transgressive, whatever I feel to, for we devour our years quickly, steak and chips like fairy floss, and no one gets a fun life of unremitting adventure by being a wimp. Thus I scheme thru the nights, there's a light at the end of my tunnel to which I travel towards.