This oil on canvas painting was completed in June of 2008.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
From a Psychic's Journal
After crossing the Styx, the crowds began to fan out, and I slipped away. I had lingered on the far shore hoping to slip past the guards, but no opportunity presented itself. So here I was at least temporarily unsupervised, but with no means of re-crossing the river. For a time, I crouched in the shade of a stalagmite and listened as the guardians regrouped. The noise of shouting, screaming and wailing seemed to justify my reluctance to join the crowd. After a little while, it may have been minutes or centuries, the crowd was herded away. I could see Charon poling his raft across with a new contingent, and decided to find a safer location to think through my options, such as they were.
The only feasible direction was down, deeper into shadows where concealment might be better. The problem, of course, was that would take me further away from the Styx the only way back I could conceive of. Since I had no ideas yet about how to re-cross that dark, bloody river, further down into the depths it was.
It didn’t take long to discover that the place was a tangle of paths with illegible signage. When you don’t know where you are going, any direction will do. Rather than flip one of the two coins I’d concealed from that thief Charon, I decided to take a more rational approach to the maze. I once read that a reasonable solution to finding one’s way out of a maze is to consistently follow a pattern. So, each time I reached a crossroads, I chose the one on the left. I was soon absolutely lost.
Just as I was beginning to despair, I turned a corner and found myself in a broad corridor. A sumptuous Persian carpet muffled the sound of my footsteps, and Barry Manilow crooned softly over a sound system. Fine paintings hung on walls that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. As I cautiously ventured forth, the temperature began to cool. At first that was a relief because most of the maze was stuffy, and as hot as a pensioner’s bedroom in a Quartz City rest home. From time to time I passed closed doors, but couldn’t make out what the signs on them meant to convey. As my hopes of finding a way back across the Styx rose, my dread of being discovered increased. Stiff upper lip and one-step at a time I progressed down the hallway.
I noticed a door ajar. It was a larger and more ornate door than any I had previously passed, and my curiosity overcame my fears. I crouched, ready to run, beside the door and peeked inside.
The room appeared empty. So when I heard a door opening somewhere along the hall the apparently empty room provided my only escape. I ducked quickly out of sight. Inside the room was larger than it had appeared from outside, and colder. I looked upward to a ceiling lost in darkness. Walls stretched endlessly out on each side of the door. The only furniture seemed to be a dark desk. I stepped toward the desk, and found myself tumbling toward it. The green felt blotter on the desk broke my fall, and for a moment I thought more was broken than just my fall. I opened my eyes and found myself looking up into a great yellow and red orb. It blinked. A great rumbling sound, deeper than thunder shook me. Even through the panic I understood being spoken to.
“My, my, my. Look what’s wandered into my office”. The air stank of sulfur and methane collected from all the outhouses of the world. I held my nose, but that didn’t help much. As I tried to think of what response might be best, I was lifted up and examined more closely. “You’ve interrupted my quiet hour, bug”. I could see a blackened claw reach toward an intercom switch.
I had to act fast, and spoke without real thought. “Just thought you might like a bit of comfort, your mightiness. Wouldn’t you like someone to share your burdens and appreciate your accomplishments for a few hours … sir”? The claw paused, and I began to breath normally again. “What is it you were doing when, I … er … dropped in”?
The rumbling answer shook the universe as the answer crashed down. “I was just going through my scrap book. From time to time I enjoy revisiting the good times”. I asked, “Have you ever shared your scrap book with anyone else”?
“These yahoos who work for me? The Enemy? No, only I can appreciate the fullness of the events and times recorded here, bug”.
“Gee, I’d sure be interested in seeing some of your mementos. And, it just happens I have a few minutes to spare. Why don’t you show me a few pages”? .
He checked his watch, “I suppose a single minute couldn’t hurt”.
He showed me. Not everything, you understand, but a few pages. Enough to drive any sane person to madness took less than a heartbeat. His laughter seemed to fill the universe mocking, and echoing among the stars. Some of those stars imploded into black holes and others went super nova. Not even a second showed on the clock face.
I sat and cried for all that was lost. I could taste my tears on parched lips. Surprisingly, instead of despair, I was filled with hope and knowledge that the scrapbook was incomplete, and reflected a single point-of-view. Even in the horrors I had seen, there were small details that kept destruction, and suffering from being perfect and complete. I laughed then.
Picked up between dirty thumb and filthy forefinger I was flicked violently through time and space away from that awful presence. So here I am again, haunting the little room in a building where I died. Tell Alicia I forgive her for stabbing me as I slept.
998 words
The only feasible direction was down, deeper into shadows where concealment might be better. The problem, of course, was that would take me further away from the Styx the only way back I could conceive of. Since I had no ideas yet about how to re-cross that dark, bloody river, further down into the depths it was.
It didn’t take long to discover that the place was a tangle of paths with illegible signage. When you don’t know where you are going, any direction will do. Rather than flip one of the two coins I’d concealed from that thief Charon, I decided to take a more rational approach to the maze. I once read that a reasonable solution to finding one’s way out of a maze is to consistently follow a pattern. So, each time I reached a crossroads, I chose the one on the left. I was soon absolutely lost.
Just as I was beginning to despair, I turned a corner and found myself in a broad corridor. A sumptuous Persian carpet muffled the sound of my footsteps, and Barry Manilow crooned softly over a sound system. Fine paintings hung on walls that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. As I cautiously ventured forth, the temperature began to cool. At first that was a relief because most of the maze was stuffy, and as hot as a pensioner’s bedroom in a Quartz City rest home. From time to time I passed closed doors, but couldn’t make out what the signs on them meant to convey. As my hopes of finding a way back across the Styx rose, my dread of being discovered increased. Stiff upper lip and one-step at a time I progressed down the hallway.
I noticed a door ajar. It was a larger and more ornate door than any I had previously passed, and my curiosity overcame my fears. I crouched, ready to run, beside the door and peeked inside.
The room appeared empty. So when I heard a door opening somewhere along the hall the apparently empty room provided my only escape. I ducked quickly out of sight. Inside the room was larger than it had appeared from outside, and colder. I looked upward to a ceiling lost in darkness. Walls stretched endlessly out on each side of the door. The only furniture seemed to be a dark desk. I stepped toward the desk, and found myself tumbling toward it. The green felt blotter on the desk broke my fall, and for a moment I thought more was broken than just my fall. I opened my eyes and found myself looking up into a great yellow and red orb. It blinked. A great rumbling sound, deeper than thunder shook me. Even through the panic I understood being spoken to.
“My, my, my. Look what’s wandered into my office”. The air stank of sulfur and methane collected from all the outhouses of the world. I held my nose, but that didn’t help much. As I tried to think of what response might be best, I was lifted up and examined more closely. “You’ve interrupted my quiet hour, bug”. I could see a blackened claw reach toward an intercom switch.
I had to act fast, and spoke without real thought. “Just thought you might like a bit of comfort, your mightiness. Wouldn’t you like someone to share your burdens and appreciate your accomplishments for a few hours … sir”? The claw paused, and I began to breath normally again. “What is it you were doing when, I … er … dropped in”?
The rumbling answer shook the universe as the answer crashed down. “I was just going through my scrap book. From time to time I enjoy revisiting the good times”. I asked, “Have you ever shared your scrap book with anyone else”?
“These yahoos who work for me? The Enemy? No, only I can appreciate the fullness of the events and times recorded here, bug”.
“Gee, I’d sure be interested in seeing some of your mementos. And, it just happens I have a few minutes to spare. Why don’t you show me a few pages”? .
He checked his watch, “I suppose a single minute couldn’t hurt”.
He showed me. Not everything, you understand, but a few pages. Enough to drive any sane person to madness took less than a heartbeat. His laughter seemed to fill the universe mocking, and echoing among the stars. Some of those stars imploded into black holes and others went super nova. Not even a second showed on the clock face.
I sat and cried for all that was lost. I could taste my tears on parched lips. Surprisingly, instead of despair, I was filled with hope and knowledge that the scrapbook was incomplete, and reflected a single point-of-view. Even in the horrors I had seen, there were small details that kept destruction, and suffering from being perfect and complete. I laughed then.
Picked up between dirty thumb and filthy forefinger I was flicked violently through time and space away from that awful presence. So here I am again, haunting the little room in a building where I died. Tell Alicia I forgive her for stabbing me as I slept.
998 words
Introductions
Who the hell is Asherman, and why should you be interested enough to read what's printed here?
I'm an over-educated, but retired Civil Servant living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I write short stories and paint pictures. The stories generally run between one and two thousand words, and have a wide variety of themes. A few have received some muffled applause, but I'm still waiting to sell something. My paintings are better known, both here an in California. I trained at the Datoro-Tonoff Studios in Rhode Island after leaving the Navy. My Alma Mater was Southern Oregon College in Ashland, Oregon. I went to San Francisco studied Buddhism with Roshi Suzuki, worked on the waterfront, and became a part of the North Beach scene as Beatnik transitioned into Hip. During those years, I painted mostly surrealism. Later, in Los Angeles I turned more to Abstract Expressionism and evolved toward large minimalist pieces. While in LA, I finished a bunch of degrees, raised a family on aerospace and public service before retiring to New Mexico. Since 2001, I've been painting my own versions of Southwestern landscapes with an Impressionist slant, but have recently my interest has returned to Abstract Expressionism.
The idea behind this blog site is to make available to a larger (?) audience my art and writing. Each post, as conceived, will consist of either a short story, or images from my art. I welcome comments whether good, bad, or ho-hum. Naturally, I prefer comments that promise and deliver a check. So here we go .........
I'm an over-educated, but retired Civil Servant living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I write short stories and paint pictures. The stories generally run between one and two thousand words, and have a wide variety of themes. A few have received some muffled applause, but I'm still waiting to sell something. My paintings are better known, both here an in California. I trained at the Datoro-Tonoff Studios in Rhode Island after leaving the Navy. My Alma Mater was Southern Oregon College in Ashland, Oregon. I went to San Francisco studied Buddhism with Roshi Suzuki, worked on the waterfront, and became a part of the North Beach scene as Beatnik transitioned into Hip. During those years, I painted mostly surrealism. Later, in Los Angeles I turned more to Abstract Expressionism and evolved toward large minimalist pieces. While in LA, I finished a bunch of degrees, raised a family on aerospace and public service before retiring to New Mexico. Since 2001, I've been painting my own versions of Southwestern landscapes with an Impressionist slant, but have recently my interest has returned to Abstract Expressionism.
The idea behind this blog site is to make available to a larger (?) audience my art and writing. Each post, as conceived, will consist of either a short story, or images from my art. I welcome comments whether good, bad, or ho-hum. Naturally, I prefer comments that promise and deliver a check. So here we go .........
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