A Wild Surmise

This Art, Your Life

100 This Art, Your Life The MRI scan reads a tumor in your brain about the size of an eraser on a pencil, but what space is it sharing, what room does it take up, what does it push aside as it reaches for your optic nerve, threatening first your color sense, then vision? I remember you walking to my cabin, a vision appearing out of nowhere, blowing my brainbound sense of rules, operating on nerve instead, kissing me first, then taking pencil and paper to sketch the sunlit hills, push against nightfall and my little room’s lack of light. In bed, there was barely room to turn over, a small single, but vision from a larger world was about to push me past all limits, past what my brain could handle, our bodies flying, pencil line strands of hair electric as a nerve network alight and glowing, each nerve firing, drawing forth the spirit of the room, transformed now by our loving. No pencil sketch, no charcoal smudge, but fiery vision of what women find and give beyond the brainwashed fractured ways we’ve had to push through to create selves in ourselves, to push into our books, our paintings—this nerve of being that shoots straight into the brain, changing every pathway like arranging room after room in your house to suit your vision 101 of space, of light, of how right it was in pencil drawings. But know each time any pencil fits into your grip, I wonder as you push the sketch to fit the scheme of your vision, are you safe enough? How can I calm you, nervous as I am, take you into the room of my heart and keep you from harm? It’s brainless hoping for such power. Take pencil. Brain storm again. Life is what we push for. Make room for daily dogged vision. Then, live on nerve. This page intentionally left blank. ...