Floating in Aqueous Humor
Michaelangelo. To me, the name means ‘enigma.’ I was grown before I started to comprehend the extent and magnitude of his life, the flecks of DNA he left behind in a chiseled finger, a swath of plaster and paint, a daydreaming doodle, or a stone pediment. How could a creative with such ADD excel at everything he touched? Was he a first a painter, a sculptor, an architect or a writer?
A friend sent me a fragment of his writing this week. Through the eons, he spoke to me. I heard his voice, and I cried. Knowing a man so gifted experienced the same crushing frustrations feeds my spirit.
May his words nourish you today in your struggle to create.
I’ve got myself a goiter from the strain.
My belly’s pushed up by force beneath my chin.
My beard toward heaven.
I feel the back of my brain upon my neck.
My brush above my face continually makes it a splendid floor by dripping down.
My loins have penetrated to my pouch.
My rump’s a crupper as a counterweight.
And pointless, the unseeing steps I go.
I’m not in a good place, and I’m no painter.
- Michaelangelo, while painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
Thank you, Amber, for thinking me a tough cookie and for caring. xo