on his knees on the beach the blind painter swore by his Italian ancestor to only create works of art of a titanic scale; giant murals that would fill cathedrals & arenas & halls
on his knees he found he could not pray for the sun's light was all he could see; god & the angels had vanished w/ their heaven; Christ no better than he who suffered gladly for the love of sun, sea, sky & darkest night; he would never see stars again; a small price for wiping their fleshy faces out of his sight
light & darkness were the only two shifting poles of his existence & their voices taking turns speaking; one during the day when art meant work & deals where she had to guide his hand where to sign on the contracts; his eyes useless as turnips in his sunburnt head; the other voice came at night more frequent more urgent & consoling & he didn't know why; she just stayed year after year; season after season; she stayed; the American gf whose name he never knew; he called her whatever name of random word came to him whenever he needed her to pour paint which was often; it was easy; there were only two colors; he'd scream black! & she'd empty a bucket of black; when he cried yellow! she'd pour out a full bucket of yellow paint & he'd begin usually ending up face down in making paint paint angels on the broad, wide canvas; when he aspirated paint she'd give him CPR
becoming belligerent & stubborn he refused to hire an assistant; he had her; the dealer arranging to pay her as though she were one through the gallery; it made his life simpler; easier to deal w/ the day-to-day of getting out of bed, washing up, eating when he couldn't see a thing except white light & black dark; color becoming a figment of his imagination; yellow the only color & black the absence of yellow but alive & vibrant in itself; an endless hole with no circumference; an ******* w/ no w/in or w/out that could & would swallow the world & every sun & world in it great & small
blind as he was he could still think & w/ no sight to hinder him, his vision was limitless