Things appeared as I painted, changing the sky, the trees, the soft, clean pool with the magic inside. They were hard to see; swift flutters off to the side of the painting. I had to turn quick to catch even one.
It was behind a mossy stump that I saw my first little winged creature. I don't think it was a butterfly, though I wanted it to be one, so I could understand.
Part of the pool was dark, and I saw in it eyes and ugly things, mean things. I kept grabbing colors, painting over that part of the pool, but the eyes came back, even when I used black.
The beautiful things, the secret images, I tried very hard to keep them away from the darkness, tried to keep them pure and among the natural parts of what I was making. But I had no control over where the bright creatures came alive, and I became very afraid they would collide with the dark.
I continued with my picture and another silver-winged creature motioned, waved I think, and I had to stop. I knew if I drew another stroke the mad blackness would eat her, swallow her up.
I didn't want that to happen.
I wasn't sure if I should continue.
One part of me said "yes", paint more, let yourself take you where it would, and you will see. But did I want to see? Did I want to know about the things that could kill what I love?
I picked up the brush, dipped it in red, and just fucking drew.
It was beautiful.
I keep it on my wall at home and sit back sometimes and laugh, just hug myself and see everything that is inside all the colors, just roll around on the carpet and stare up at it and feel this rising, a filling up of my chest, a rumble, a mad godly giggle, and I . . .
. . . maybe I'm breathing too hard. Maybe I'm still scared. I pick up the feather that has fallen out of the painting, tickle its softness beneath my nose.
It smells fresh, very female.
I clutch it close to my chest, not possessing, only feeling it. Enjoying what I've been given.
It is warm, and not very heavy.