Bottles

In a room, a young man with a paintbrush and paint, and a canvas for it all to be put, thinks about where the next splash of paint should be splashed, and, while he's doing this, hums a quiet tune. Remember that tune: you'll need it later. Anyway, this young man, whom I've just described as a painter of sorts in the process of painting, now, at last (for me, at least; for the rest of you have only just joined us), puts brush to surface and creates an abstract face of blue. The use of blue here, I believe, indicates to the looker (that's us) the mood of this figure. A good-looker will spot this instantly, but for you, who've only been with me a few short weeks, it'll take a while longer. You'll get better with practice.

In this room, this young man spends a while longer on his masterpiece, finishing it about now with a delicate stroke of yellow. Good, huh? Pay extra attention to the use of lighting and form. You'll thank me later. Some more effectively than others. And now the young man, the painter, marvels at his work, at his masterwork. Look at his face. Look at his genius. And, like all good geniuses should, he knows it.

A few hours pass and, as of now, have passed. His hands pass over the canvas. He feels every pulse of life within with every pulse of hand without. Then he reels back. I told you he would. Now he's taking a closer look. The room's lights — a couple of candles — dim obediently as the painter enters the other world. Yes, his body stays here, but his spirit is soaring somewhere we can only compromise with our academic imaginations. I have, nevertheless, written an approximation of what he may be experiencing:

Clouds. Clouds everywhere. I am free and floating. Below me are rolling green hills and beautiful forests. Everything is swimming. I am too. We are merging now into one. I am everything. I am the hills, the trees, the lakes, the butterflies. The clouds. I am as ethereal as ethereality itself. Every form of matter presents itself to me within me and without me. I am, I am.

Of course, one can never know, but, in lieu of his work, this must surely be close. Thank you. See how he's not moving? Not even his eyes. He's no longer of this world. He's somewhere much more spiritual. And we're stuck here. Still, you've got to play with your hand. The hand you've been dealt, I mean. But it makes you think. Makes you question the ol' 9 to 5, you know? Anyway, I'll see you all tomorrow.

Which is now. The young painter, in his workshop, is still very much there physically, but, as you can see, he hasn't moved, and thus we must deduce that he is still out-of-body. And you can't blame him. His hand and brush have opened the doors of perception the hard way, and I'm sure he doesn't want to throw it all away quite yet. Remember to mention this at the year's end. See you in a few weeks.

Even at the sake of his safety, he remains locked in the other world. His skin is pale and his bones are showing, but in the upper deck, peace reigns. He's reached the contentment we all strive for, and it's reflected in the painting. The blue figure has the same look as he does now. The 'not quite here' look. And, like him, the blue figure isn't aware of his surroundings. Remember to rephrase that when you come to write it.

Though dead, he still gives the impression of a free spirit, as if he is beyond mortal perceptions of life and death. I firmly believe that he is as he once was all those weeks ago. I'm sure this will be amusing to some of you, but to me it's as real as day. And on that note, have a good one.