Marathon Painting 2nd April
Peace, Peace, Peace.
Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata,
Shantih, Shantih, Shantih.
I set out to run a marathon, to make myself vulnerable and ready to paint. Beating the ego back by piling on the miles. Barely anything to eat or drink. Can’t clog the channel to the elemental up with such things.
Sometimes the run presents subject matter. Today it’s the case.
I run between watersheds. I could just as easily say I run certain trails, but thinking of areas as watersheds helps me see them more clearly. I begin at Chedoke, heading for Greenhill. Plan is to go as far as Red Hill Valley Watershed, then head back north to Lower Spencer and home to the docks, about 25 miles in all.
A rucksack is abandoned. 10 metres away man and child lay in that particular type of beautiful deep sleep brought on by early sun after a freezing night.
Four ladies complain that they might not get their day out in Toronto because the train is cancelled.
A teenager sits behind them on a low wall, feet in bare earth, heroin nodding. Not the jerky fear-nod of a homeless who hasn’t slept all night because they had to be alert for drunks or cops so when morning comes they haven’t slept and don't want to in case of what might happen when they do, and this fear keeps them jerking themselves awake whenever sleep calls. No, this is a rhythmic nod, up, down, in, out, an ocean current, the heroin tide. I imagine him as Duchamp’s Nude #3, descending into the wider consciousness.
A girl pushes a shopping trolley loaded with belongings. 100 metres. Then turns back and repeats the action, twice. She has 3 shopping trolleys of belongings. I gather this as I run a few loops.
2 unmarked police cars drive the cycle path. Aviator sunglasses stare out, daring me to laugh at their lack of imagination, as kids laughed in the 60’s at undercover FBI agents with shiny shoes. They’ve just evicted the girl from her home. The home she’d built on a piece of wasteland, where I'd seen her feed the birds all winter. It’s been torn down and reduced to 3 trolleys by cops who probably justify their actions with ‘they were only doing their job’. So rich people don’t have their view of the wasteland spoiled.
I love a good view of wasteland, don’t you?
Naturally, one thinks of April being the cruellest month.
Run on through the woods of Red Hill Valley. The deer of winter - visible when people were few - are now hidden. Like the homeless they want a quiet life, and that’s not to be found around the average human. Blessed are the meek. They are peacemakers if we wish them to be.
Back at the apartment, hungry, sore and a little sunburnt. Just how I like it.
My ego tries to stop me painting. I stretch out, shower, make food, clean the entire place.
I battle it though, for I’m not quite at the start line. Summon up the energy to try to dance with duende. Drop my energy into the floor, gather my paints.
A lad appears on the shores of the heroin sea, descending into peace, the invisible deer, the coots and the mushroom cloud. ‘The Wasteland’ was published 100 years ago this year, worthy of a mention, and apt. No opening line, I have some pride. Lilacs, though, 3 shopping trolleys piled high with them, they can go in, and the final lines.
Give, Be Compassionate, exercise self control.
Peace, Peace, Peace.
