Opting out of the requirement
of cutting my own ear off, I spent a portion of the weekend staining a canvas
or two . . . or three to be exact. For
any artist, the pursuit of their craft can best be described as plummeting
helplessly into a black hole. It is all
consuming, a void in space and time. If
not careful, one can find themselves lost in a project, only to awaken and realize
that the better part of a week has passed and they have scarcely eaten or slept
for that entire period. Perhaps not the
healthiest of activities, but it has a way of leading to absolute brilliance
and unsurpassed beauty. It also leads to
insanity, which is why you will find them lopping off an appendage or two
throughout history. Not to worry though,
ole Jack Butler’s body will remain in one piece . . . for now anyway. Obligations in the real world have a way of
shaking you back to your senses and forbid your paint brush from becoming
permanently affixed to your hand. In
addition, these days I find myself with so many of these artistic endeavors
tugging at my shirt sleeve that I find it hard to deny one for the sake of the
other. This is probably why my painting,
my writing, my musical ability and my linguistic aptitude all suck. Jack of all trades, master of none.
Be that as it may, I continue
each of these endeavors as they all bring me great joy. Purely selfish joy, so I have to be careful
not to make them my master. The domestic
arts mustn’t be ignored or my place in our little tribe will be questioned and
I certainly don’t need or want to be cast off of the reservation. The weekend was quiet and relatively
serene. The eldest hosted a friend for
the day on Sunday while the wife sorted out a lovely supper. Canard and Pomme de Terre. For you hillbillies out there, Pomme de Terre
is not a lake in the Ozarks but a Potato.
Loosely translated as “Apple of the Earth”. Canard, of course, is Duck. One of the byproducts of the Fois Gras
industry now being dominated by the duck rather than the goose is that there is
an abundance of very succulent duck breast available at your local market. Having enjoyed all things “duck” over the
past year, I am beginning to think that it might be right up there with my love
for bacon. Duck fat makes everything better.
With our hearth warm with
vine driven fire and my belly quite full of fowl, I couldn’t help a moment or
two of reflection. Never very far from
my next inquisition over what exactly I do for a living, I am beginning to
re-think my “retirement” gag. I am
actually NOT retired as I feel that I work very hard during the course of a
day. Perhaps what I am, is “On
Sabbatical”. The current definition of
this concept seems to be “any
extended absence in the career of an individual in order to achieve something.
In the modern sense, one takes sabbatical typically to fulfill some goal, e.g.,
writing a book or traveling extensively
for research.” After researching
the origins of the word, I began to appreciate that this above all else best
describes my current place in life. I’m
on Sabbatical! I have taken leave from
my profession, a profession that is still a part of me, in an effort to travel,
fulfill a goal, and at page 294 . . . write a book. Someone recently commented to me that they
had a friend who considered themselves an “unpublished” author. With the American work ethic being so
brightly embroidered on the fabric of my being, I really struggle sometimes
with the concept of being a writer (or an artist), when the end result is a
house full of paintings that aren’t all that good and a computer full of words
that will never see light of day. And
yet, I really identify with the concept.
An “unpublished” author, “undiscovered” painter, loving husband, and
proud father of two. I guess I could think
of worse things to be.
Truth is, I spend way too much time
looking at my life from the inside. I
get lost in my daily misgivings and forget what a storybook life I now
live. From the outside, it is certainly
the most romantic dream anyone could possibly conjure. Writing, Painting, Living and Loving on the
Western Coast of France. Living life in
the shadow of the vines on a Chateau built before the United States was even a shimmer
in it’s Daddy’s eye. Traveling the world
in search of my soul and living a pilgrim’s life when others deserve it
more. If my world came grinding to a halt
tomorrow, I would rest easy in my grave knowing I have lived a lifetime in but
a single year. One day this adventure
will come to a close and I know now more than ever that the impression it has
left will remain forever tattooed upon my chest. Take care, and Godspeed. R.
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