Over the past year or so, Ela and I developed an unexpected friendship. We share similar qualities as artists and were able to patchowrk together an interesting "coffee table" discussion through email channels and social media. She has a unique perspective, but remains a quiet and humble participant in her creative endeavors. I'd venture to say that many of you do not know her directly, but I will say she is one of the finest and most supportive artists you will meet on your journey. It only takes that small gesture of reaching out. Additionally, Ela is one of the few creative individuals who has actually tried to understand my dark musings and art – I give her great credit for the simple act of listening. I've since jumped ship from social media, but I didn't want our friendly discussion to fall by the wayside. With that, I will share some prose that I created several months ago. It is titled Don't Weep For The Scarecrow. Incidentally, Ela had crafted a perfect companion piece of artwork that fit perfectly with the words. It was her clever idea to adjoin these two items...
DON'T WEEP FOR THE SCARECROW
by Art Blacktooth / Painting by Ela Chmielowski
I searched for the perfect words, but the universe rejected my screams. I was stuck on zero, alone in perpetual motion, circling like a vulture with no earthly corpse. I had no eyes to pluck, no organs to grind... only this desolate hunger which devours from the inside.
The scarecrows were laughing. They waited for me... Waited for me to join their legions – a straw man in a straw hat weeping for the harvest. I sit on these lonely acres, watching the seasons turn. The tears of yesterday have dried. My sins are now my scars. I wear them with regret, a secret language that only you shall ever know, a honey-sweet marriage between destiny and doom.
I whisper this dying promise, a chilling word that speaks of betrayal, of broken memories splattered with grief. I am drenched in sweat. An alcohol fever rages. I am drowning in a violent haze, thrashing like a heart ready to burst, an explosive memoir filled with rabid secrets.
Is there nothing more pathetic than a poet with no tongue? A painter with no hands? A writer with no heart? We place our trust in the care of strangers. We give them our future, our dignity, our faith. Perhaps it is only righteous that the scarecrow should weep. All I ask is that you look the other way...