We Are All Here And That Is Just How It Is
by
Keemo
Published by Smashwords
Copyright Keemo 2010
License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. (They will thank you for such a thoughtful gift) Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Keemo.
All artwork and writing contained in this ebook was created by Keemo. For more art, stories, paintings, and information, visit http://www.KeemoGallery.com/.
You can also find Keemo on the web at the following locations:
For the two girls.
All The Good Ideas Come From The Words We Exchange
2010. Acrylic and ink.
Is that suppose to be hair on top of the head?
She asked.
No, it isn’t hair,
I replied.
What is it then?
She asked.
It is supposed to be ideas,
I said.
They don’t look like ideas,
She said.
What do ideas look like?
I asked.
I don’t know,
She replied.
I don’t know either,
I said.
I guess they look like ideas,
She said.
I think so too,
I replied.
My Night On Earth (in 4 acts)
2010. Acrylic and ink.
Act 1:
Years ago, I gave up caring what people think about me and my art and my words because they are mine and it is me and it is what I do and it is what I am. There would be no purpose to all of this if it was for any other reason. It really is that simple.
Act 2:
I was working on the king painting and the dog was at my feet and I put a pillow behind me in the chair because my back is still in bad shape three months after hitting that tree and yes I took a pain pill tonight not only for the pain in my back but for other reasons, I suppose.
Act 3:
It was late and we were talking about life and people and art and I remember saying to her, “It doesn’t matter what art is, it just matters to understand that all rules in art are self imposed.” It sounded good at the time and it sounded like I knew what I was talking about but I know inside that I am learning just like everyone else.
Act 4:
Don’t look for answers from people who don’t ask questions.
Three Years Is Long Enough
2009. Watercolor and ink.
We were out on the patio. Just the two of us.
We were at the Winchester on Wealthy St. I was drinking Arcadia and she drank water and occasionally she took sips off my beer and as we talked I could see my reflection in the lenses of her big dark sunglasses.
Dinner came while were looking at photos of an old of friend on my phone and there were many photos of his new baby and all the photos had a sense of something that was beginning and it made me think that I am a long way from a beginning, or an end for that matter, and I realized that it doesn’t seem right to think in terms of beginnings and ending but only thinking of the stuff in between. (that is really the hard part)
The waitress brought another Arcadia and I took a healthy pull on it and it tasted good and I overheard the woman behind me say to her friend, “Three years I was with him and that’s it. It’s over.”
Your could hear her broken heart speaking in her words and for some reason three years didn’t seem that long and then I realized that it was long enough. It is long enough.
Beauty On The Rocks. A Poem.
2009. Acrylic, watercolor and ink.
It was a long conversation and
there was adult beverages involved
so needless to say there was
a lot of
poetic waxing on both sides of
the table.
Her brain was working in high gear and
under the dim light and
across the white table cloth
she looked
as beautiful as ever.
Her lips where painted red and
as we talked I could
see the words
float right into her ears and
sit there behind her eyes,
circulate and then new words
came out of those red lips and
this happened over and
over and over and
there was also laughter and
during pauses I could feel her hand and
hear Jazz music playing
over the speakers.
In Front Of The Mirror With Black Eyes
2008. Acrylic and ink on wood.
We were in the bathroom this morning. I walked around her to get to the sink and a toothbrush.
“My eyes have dark circles under them.” She said moving her face closer to the mirror.
I looked. They were a little dark, you had to look just right to see it.
I put the toothpaste on and started brushing. I looked into the mirror and my eyes looked dark too. I wasn’t surprised, we were up late last and I was the one who did all the drinking.
I looked at both of our reflections, in front of the mirror with dark circles under our eyes and thought everything was just how it should be.
She left the room and I finished brushing and spit into the sink and followed her out into the day.
No One Knows You In These Moments
2010. Acrylic and ink.
It was 4:53 AM when I slid out of bed and tiptoed across the cold floor and quietly shut the door behind me. The house was dark and cold and still and I went downstairs and sat on the couch and lit up the room with the TV screen.
No one knows you in these moments.
It was cold in the house and as images flickered on the TV, I remembered one time I was standing outside the fitting room while she tried on new clothes and a woman who walked by pointed to the Keemo button on my jacket and said, “I love your button. I am a huge fan of his work.” I wasn’t sure what to say, so I fessed up. “Well, thank you and nice to meet you, I am Keemo.” We talked for a few minutes and she was very nice and she said that “she thought I would be taller” and I laughed and I knew that one of these days I would work that line of hers into a story.
No one knows you in these moments.
I flipped channels and it was still dark and I had a blanket over me and there were a million reasons why I should go back up to bed and only a few reasons why I did not. I could hear the dog pacing on the wood floor above me and I considered taking something to put me to sleep but what was keeping me awake was more important than stealing a dream before the morning alarm.
No one knows you in these moments and it is these moments that make us.
Vivaldi And I And The Ice In My Drink Has Melted
2010. Acrylic and ink.
It is already late tonight and
I am just finally getting to the keys and
there is Vivaldi in the air and
it fits perfectly with it all tonight.
It fits with the paints and the other
daydreams
about less important things that happen
while on the punch clock
that I forgot to leave back
there.
It is one of those nights where
you just want to slide
into the notes coming
out of the speakers and
you mix the drink a bit stronger
because in the end
you know it will help you sleep better and
did I mention there is Vivaldi in the air and
it fits perfectly
with it all tonight?
She Was All Brains
2008. Watercolor and ink.
I had been gone for 4 days, so after I brought my bags in from the car and we chatted for a few minutes and then decided to go out and have a nice lunch at a restaurant by our house.
It’s on the lake and there is a deck and you can eat out by the boats under the shade of the umbrellas that block out the sun and people in kayaks and sailboats and speedboats and row boats move around in the water just a couple hundred feet away.
It is summer and this is nice. We all talk a lot because we hadn’t seen each other in so long. After a wonderful lunch and a wonderful conversation the two of them stepped away from the table a minute and I sat and waited for the check and stared out at the lake thinking how wonderful it is to come home after days alone in a strange hotel room. Then I hear from behind me, “She was all brains... Nothing else.” “That is too bad,” said a second voice from the table behind me. I was trying to consider under what circumstances is being all brains a bad thing. I couldn’t think of anything. I paid the check and met them outside by the lake. “You ready?” I said. “Yes, I'm ready,” she said.
She looked beautiful in the Michigan sun and she took my hand and we started to the car and I couldn’t help but thinking that she is all brains and so much, much more.
It Is Very Late But This Does Not Mean It Is Over (Thanks For The Music, Ludwig)
2010. Acrylic and ink.
I’m not a poet and
I don’t pretend to write poems and
I’ve never thought of these as poems but
I suppose
all great writers and
all bad writers and
all writers in between
all play with it a bit as a way to make sure the words don't
fall victim
to the period and the comma but
as I work these paints and draw my lines and
piano sonata no. 14 in C sharp drifts around the room
I know that is
where I find the poetry.
It is there when it all comes together with the
the paints and the words and the lines and
the sad and lonely no. 14 in C Sharp
are all mixed up and dark and
drifting around
the room.
Everything Is Just Beyond The Shadows Of My Desk Lamp
2008. Watercolor and ink.
I couldn’t sleep last night.
I laid in bed and thought about all the stuff going on. (All the stuff that happens beyond the world that you read about in these paintings) There was moonlight coming in from the side of the curtain and it illuminated all the items on the dresser. There is a painting on the wall over the dresser that we bought when we were young and didn’t have much. I thought about those times and those days and decided to get out of bed and go downstairs. I stopped in the kitchen and poured a small glass of wine from the bottle that was left over from dinner. The clock on the microwave read 3:19. “It’s as good as time as any,” I thought and went up to the desk and turned the small desk lamp on and started painting. What does this painting have to do with all this? Well, I suppose it has as much to do with my sleepless night as does the moonlight, the curtain, the items on the dresser, the painting on the wall, those times when we didn’t have much, the quiet, the wine bottle, the clock on the microwave, the desk lamp, the dark house and the brushes and the water that painted it. I suppose that all those things are here, in these colors somewhere. Actually, I’m sure they are.
When The Destination Is Irrelevant The Path To Get There Is Not
2009. Acrylic and ink.
I was driving down the highway in the rental
car with the windows down and
it was 71 and
my winter jacket was balled up in the
passengers seat and I reached over and
turned off the radio and
just listened to the wind blow through the car and
I was daydreaming like I always do when I am driving down
the highway.
The sky was a brilliant blue and the clouds
where a brilliant white and
everything seemed brilliant
like they always do when I daydream.
I drove like that for a while and
then finally turned
the radio back
on and I skimmed through the channels and
stopped at an old Kinks song and
turned it up and
just kept
on
driving.
It Is Only A Matter Of Time Before The Cold Wind Blows Again
2009. Acrylic, watercolor and ink.
We were in the city.
It was Friday and it was cloudy and it was cold and the buildings stood up around us like trees without leaves. When we turned down some streets the wind blew down on us and we pulled each other close and I was glad the doctor gave me that medicine for the pain in my back so I could do this all without agony as she put her arm tightly around me.
That is the only way to walk in the city. Your arms wrapped around someone and all the other stuff is wrapped up in that embrace as well, but you don’t talk about that stuff but you both know it’s in there.
You then turn another corner and the wind is not as strong and you loosen your embrace a bit but not quite all the way, because you really don’t want to and you know it is only a matter of time before the cold wind blows again.
A Nineteen Year Walk
2008. Acrylic, watercolor and ink.
It is the classic beginning of the classic coming of age story.
I was 18 and just finished high school and couldn’t leave that small town fast enough and I knew that there was this whole new world out there waiting for me to run around and make all kinds of mistakes in. The day before I was to leave, we went for a walk through a neighborhood park and I could tell that I was hurting her a lot by leaving the way that I was. I could also tell that she knew she had to let her son go and find out what things were about. My memory of that day was one of beauty. I can still see the big huge Michigan trees dropping big Michigan leaves around us as we walked. The light was perfect and so was the world for the first time in a long time.
Her memory of that day was one of sadness and regret. Over Christmas as we talked and shared stories, she brought up that day walking through the park. She was still sad and had feelings of regret. “I knew that you were going to struggle down the path you were choosing,” she said.
Looking back I know that it was the path that was necessary and that I was letting the destination choose the path and not the other way around. (there is a difference.) I suppose I think often of that walk in the park and remind myself that I am still on that path and I have not yet arrived at the destination. I guess I am still just walking in the park and yes, she is still walking there with me.
Daydream On US131 North
2009. Acrylic and ink.
I was thinking of him while driving down the rainy highway this evening. I think of him often. I have not seen him in years.
It has been about 15 years, I suppose.
I remember when I was young and things weren’t going well and life was much more complicated and I didn’t have a place to sleep and eat and he let me in and there was a couch in his room and it was brown and there was heat and blankets and every day was about art and music and freedom and life had no boundaries and and neither did we and I look back and can’t believe that most of us survived (R.I.P. Brandon) and it seems like an eternity from this moment as I sit here at these keys but I know that if it wasn’t for him and his kindness and his openness, that there is a good chance I wouldn’t be here either.
Still A Possibility. #3
2009. Acrylic and ink on wood.
I was in a car accident this week.
It was one of those that everyone walks from. I have heard many people say that at the moment of impact that your life flashes before your eyes. This didn’t happen to me. It was more like the inside surface of the car flashing on the outside of my head. It all happens so quickly. You blink and it is over. Instead of “flashing,” I really think that is in those hours afterward that your life strolls slowly by your eyes and you think about it all, the past, the present, the future, those people in your life and out. You think how lucky you are to see your breath in the cold air while waiting for the police to arrive. You think how the pain in your neck is really nothing compared to what could have been. You think that there is nothing wrong with hitting redial on your cell phone 11 times because hearing her voice is about the only thing that matters. It is these moments that you slow and think about it all and are thankful that all of this that we do is still a possibility.
In His Eyes And He Talked
2010. Acrylic and ink with typewriter.
There words are nothing more than just that. Words. There is no music in the air tonight. Only the sound of these keystrokes on this paper and the dog scratching on the floor by my feet and papers rustling as she goes through a drawer looking for something. I am looking for something but it is not found in the drawer. I know because I have already looked in there.
There is still only the sound of these keys and nothing more.
I think of the man in the wheelchair who asked us to get the cup out of his wheel and he had to be cold going around the city in just a t-shirt. You could see the drink in his eyes as he talked to us. As I think of him I am certain that he has forgotten about me and the cup and the cold and the talk and it all.
What Is Important Depends On What Side Of The Window You Are On
2009. Watercolor and ink.
The city was still moving on the other side of the 11th floor window. It was late but everyone knows the city slows down differently than everything else. The bottle of beer I picked up in the hotel store was sweating and forming a ring of water on the glass desktop and in between brush strokes I was daydreaming about things and I couldn’t help but feel rather insignificant looking out at the thousands of other windows in the other tall buildings in view. It’s these moments that I think of all the people doing important work with important people and making important decisions and I look down at the insignificant white paper and there is an insignificant spot of red paint that dripped on it and I drink from my insignificant beer and look back to the window and think about how the red spot on my paper could be connected to everything that is going on outside of the window and I dip my brush into the water and smear the red dot around until the red dot is now a pinkish smear and I go to work on the portrait of me thinking about all these things while the city moves on without me.