Just to get rid of the old journal, something I wrote in a dark hour. Apologies to watchers for lack of art updates, hopefully soon...soon.
The following cautionary sequence of events I am about to recount is perhaps not a unique one, but it shall hopefully show the initially well-intended motivations that my artistic aspirations have led me to and the resulting folly I now find myself in.
More than a decade ago after finishing University I had semi-consciously avoided the artistic demons in my belly, present but never insistent. I generally pootled about in several interesting but ultimately unrewarding careers. It was during the October month of 2011 that I attended a 2 day illustration workshop entitled “White Cloud Worlds” in Wellington. Over the course of the weekend dark whispers began to make themselves heard from behind the sickly bright glow of points on the screen in front of me. As I left the workshop, the sub-audible chatterings followed me from their basement lair. The chill bite of the Tasman southerlies cut through the air and the ominous clouds that roiled over the harbour were not white, but a burnt charcoal gray. On the long solitary drive back to my estate, hidden in the remote winding gorge of the Akatarawa valley the dark whispers became more insistent and resolved into half uttered gibberish words. I didn’t know what exactly but something had shifted in me. Over the next few weeks I began to set up my dark altar.
For the next 8 months I went to my 40 hour day job as a technical analyst to satisfy the mortgage beast of Akatarawa Valley. I returned home soul depleted every day and the whispers would begin again. I sat in the cold glow of my altar and painted for 3-4 hours, sometimes more each night. I started to hear scritchings and scratchings in the walls which I accounted to some rodent seeking shelter from the cold. After 5-6 hours of a fitful sleep invaded by dreams of dark shapes clawing through a semitransparent black fabric, I would wake and repeat the cycle.
In the weekends I would retreat to my estate and rarely leave until the next work day came around. I installed a few rat traps around the house but I wasn’t confident I would catch anything as I knew the telltale droppings of the rodent were not present. All I had found was a sticky treacle-y substance around a small hole drilled to allow power cables through in the pantry.
People still used to come and visit me then and they would occasionally stay overnight. Those times were good. When darkness slid over the valley as a blanket as we prepared for bed we would hear the scratching in the walls. I tried to laugh it off with jests of superintelligent rodents and I showed them the unsprung traps. I had not caught a thing. We talked about alternate methods of peanut butter and trapdoors over buckets half full of water. Even rats can’t swim forever we joked. But as they settled in for the night I would return to my altar and bathe in the glow of the screen and the insistent whispers of the shapes behind them.
As time went on I retreated further into my hole and avoided people. Eventually they stopped coming. To this day they have not returned. I now sit bathed in the glow of my altar and listen as the shifting shapes behind the screen constantly called to me to join them, consuming pieces of me with each stroke of my pen. It is not food but the dismal hunger in my belly for creative expression that sustains me. The clock ticks as time passes and the years of my youth melt away into the gloaming of time; the sores on my legs and back itch incessantly, my cheeks sallow and my eye sockets cast deep shadows from within which insanity twinkles.
I write this not to engender sympathy in the reader, though you would probably feel so inclined if brought face to face with the wretchedly state of my existence. I suspect you would recoil in horror at the same time. The scratching has become a slow steady deep scraping and drumming of the wall. The whispering has resolved into the vile guttural gibbering of a thousand different tongues of artists from the depths of time. I now hear the crack of the whip of the dark demon beast behind them all slavering in demand for my soul. They will not stop until they have consumed me. I write this as an entreaty to show not how wretched I am but how motivated I am in doing the work the dark lord demands. I ask you...no beg of you...please help me to unleash them.