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ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
THOMAS QUALLS
excerpt from novel, "waking up at rembrandt's"
The painter folded back the heavy curtain, standing in the stream of light
breaking through the damp thickness of the room. He paused, still
holding the drape in his hand as he considered with suspicion that a
world could exist outside the window. Then he reached for a stained
cloth and tied back the opaque fabric. He returned to the easel, wading
through the illuminated particles of air on his way.
To paint one must forget everything else. Where you live, who you know,
what you eat, when to sleep. The landscape of the canvass becomes your
only reality. The planet you inhabit is a single plane of infinite
dimensions, stretched like a guitar string, and stood before you like a
concubine waiting for your command.
The painter knew that color was not something you controlled but
something you set free. He believed that color knew its way home. But he
lived in a time and place that considered color suspect, blasphemous
even. Those who worshiped color, who cavorted with it, who dared to
practice its alchemy, were seen as witches. The respectable world would
tolerate his kind to a point, for entertainment’s sake. So long as the world
was painted the way they wanted it to be. So long as the painter could
rein in color, make it behave. So long as he had no thoughts of his own.
You might think of a thought as an invisible innocuous little thing.
Something that barely exists. But a thought is something hard to conceal.
Hold a thought, and it melts all over your hands. Touch something else,
and now you’ve left traces of it. Hide it under your shirt, and it bleeds
through.
The painter was not afraid of thoughts though and did not consider
thinking risky behavior. To the painter, the only risk which existed was to
stop painting. To stop trying to solve the riddle of light and dark. Or to
paint what someone else wanted him to see. To tell the colors to stand up
straight, form a narrow line, eat their peas. That was death.
The painter knew the mirror lied. And the canvass told the truth. A simple
breakfast of beer, fried eggs and herring. These things you could trust.
Words, whether written or spoken, were barely worth sitting still for, not
worth repeating. In the end there is only light and dark. And the two are
not so far apart.
The painter folded back the heavy curtain, standing in the stream of light
breaking through the damp thickness of the room. He paused, still
holding the drape in his hand as he considered with suspicion that a
world could exist outside the window. Then he reached for a stained
cloth and tied back the opaque fabric. He returned to the easel, wading
through the illuminated particles of air on his way.
To paint one must forget everything else. Where you live, who you know,
what you eat, when to sleep. The landscape of the canvass becomes your
only reality. The planet you inhabit is a single plane of infinite
dimensions, stretched like a guitar string, and stood before you like a
concubine waiting for your command.
The painter knew that color was not something you controlled but
something you set free. He believed that color knew its way home. But he
lived in a time and place that considered color suspect, blasphemous
even. Those who worshiped color, who cavorted with it, who dared to
practice its alchemy, were seen as witches. The respectable world would
tolerate his kind to a point, for entertainment’s sake. So long as the world
was painted the way they wanted it to be. So long as the painter could
rein in color, make it behave. So long as he had no thoughts of his own.
You might think of a thought as an invisible innocuous little thing.
Something that barely exists. But a thought is something hard to conceal.
Hold a thought, and it melts all over your hands. Touch something else,
and now you’ve left traces of it. Hide it under your shirt, and it bleeds
through.
The painter was not afraid of thoughts though and did not consider
thinking risky behavior. To the painter, the only risk which existed was to
stop painting. To stop trying to solve the riddle of light and dark. Or to
paint what someone else wanted him to see. To tell the colors to stand up
straight, form a narrow line, eat their peas. That was death.
The painter knew the mirror lied. And the canvass told the truth. A simple
breakfast of beer, fried eggs and herring. These things you could trust.
Words, whether written or spoken, were barely worth sitting still for, not
worth repeating. In the end there is only light and dark. And the two are
not so far apart.
An Introduction
Song of Myself.
A human being is not static. Not
capable of definition. Resumes lie.
Even when they tell the truth. To
define something is to kill part of it.
Life isn’t really linear. Although it’s
generally perceived that way. The
stories we tell are woven like snakes
around a divining rod. A center of
time containing all that’s ever been
told and heard. Remembered and
forgotten. Lost and found.
Our pasts, presents and futures are
unwound, stretched flat, cut into
pieces and held up with human
arms. In this way they are
understood by a human culture who
has forgotten all but a few of the
numberless dimensions, a culture
who has lost its sight looking for its
name.
If I tell you who I am today, by
tomorrow it won’t be true. I am here
to expand my ideas of myself, not to
limit them. The best way to know
who I am is to keep reading.
And I'll keep writing.
Until then...
Song of Myself.
A human being is not static. Not
capable of definition. Resumes lie.
Even when they tell the truth. To
define something is to kill part of it.
Life isn’t really linear. Although it’s
generally perceived that way. The
stories we tell are woven like snakes
around a divining rod. A center of
time containing all that’s ever been
told and heard. Remembered and
forgotten. Lost and found.
Our pasts, presents and futures are
unwound, stretched flat, cut into
pieces and held up with human
arms. In this way they are
understood by a human culture who
has forgotten all but a few of the
numberless dimensions, a culture
who has lost its sight looking for its
name.
If I tell you who I am today, by
tomorrow it won’t be true. I am here
to expand my ideas of myself, not to
limit them. The best way to know
who I am is to keep reading.
And I'll keep writing.
Until then...
Looking for the light
You know how you come home
sometimes later than you planned, it
is dark outside, you haven't left any
lights on in the house, your hands
and arms are full with mail,
packages, groceries, beer, and you
are trying to find your way to the
light switch without dropping your
mail, packages, groceries, beer, and
without banging your toes, knee,
elbow, forehead, into something
stationary, hard, sharp, cat-like, and
you know approximately where the
light-switch is located, but can't see
it, and just have a bad feeling about
your chances of getting there with
you and your stuff intact?
It's kind of one of those days. I know
the light is out there (and also in
here), but I'm having some trouble
finding it. And some trepidation
about which way to move in the
dark.
Did I mention there are stairs near
my light-switch?
Keeping dropping by. I'll try to
remember to leave a light on.
You know how you come home
sometimes later than you planned, it
is dark outside, you haven't left any
lights on in the house, your hands
and arms are full with mail,
packages, groceries, beer, and you
are trying to find your way to the
light switch without dropping your
mail, packages, groceries, beer, and
without banging your toes, knee,
elbow, forehead, into something
stationary, hard, sharp, cat-like, and
you know approximately where the
light-switch is located, but can't see
it, and just have a bad feeling about
your chances of getting there with
you and your stuff intact?
It's kind of one of those days. I know
the light is out there (and also in
here), but I'm having some trouble
finding it. And some trepidation
about which way to move in the
dark.
Did I mention there are stairs near
my light-switch?
Keeping dropping by. I'll try to
remember to leave a light on.
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