birds fly over the rainbow...
Sunday afternoon, July 12, Day 42
The Carnival, Genny's Wagon
It's been a month since we rolled into town and I ain't seen nothin' hardly beyond the fence of the carnival. First I had to make all the posters, 'course, the pretty ones that hang around the grounds and the ordinary ones that get put up around town, on any flat surface we can find. I know by now how to make the ordinary ones so they'll go through the old mimeograph machine and still come out lookin' good - strong lines but far apart, no subtle shading or cross-hatches 'cause that ain't nothin' but mud after it goes through the machine.
I swear, there ain't nobody but Zann who could keep that old mimeograph goin', but she can do just about anything with machines. She's just about the smartest person I know, with her patterns and machines and all. Prettiest, too. I don't mind when the machine breaks down, 'cause I can watch her while she fixes it. She never sits still long enough for me to paint her all proper, but I know what she looks like in my head so well that I almost don't need to see her to draw her.
But the posters took forever to do, and then last week there was that storm that blew down half of the posters in town so I had to make 'em all over again, and repaint the signs and wagons that got beat up by the hail. And then Sadie come in to say that two of her birds - Sadie's Singingest Songbirds - got lost in the storm and couldn't I paint her a couple till she trained the new ones up right?
So I'm painting that kind of painting, every night. Gettin' 'em done early today so I can go to the doc's party. I like birds, and I can do 'em pretty quick after all this practice. Quick lines, arching up and swooping down to make the curve of head and neck, brushing back for the wings, as light as if the lines were flyin' like birds themselves. There's a picture of two birds in no time at all, but it's nothin' but flat and pretty.
And then I reach for my knife. Not the palette knife, but the sharp clean one with brass fixin's to match the syringes and tubes. I put the blade against my arm, makin' another straight little line next to the others that the doc ain't had a chance to heal up yet. It hurts for a flash, and I have to try real hard not to cry. The blood starts to drip, red on white and then gone when it touches the paint, and then everything goes gray and blank.
Suddenly there's nothin' but feathers in my sight, each little strand standing out sharp and clean like tree branches on the sky in the winter sun. I see exactly where to put the last few touches. Bits of white for light in their eyes, shadows under their wings, not black just a darker shade of blue. All the layers of color building one over the other, not lookin' like anything on their own but all together making a feather and a bird. And the little bits made only of blood, the bits that will make them sing and fly and live. My heart's jumpin' and poundin' like it always does because this never gets old or dry, never ever.
"Fly home," I tell them. "Sing well." I know they will, and even though I still can't see anything, I feel the birds fly off to Sadie, and I smile.
[Open]
The Carnival, Genny's Wagon
It's been a month since we rolled into town and I ain't seen nothin' hardly beyond the fence of the carnival. First I had to make all the posters, 'course, the pretty ones that hang around the grounds and the ordinary ones that get put up around town, on any flat surface we can find. I know by now how to make the ordinary ones so they'll go through the old mimeograph machine and still come out lookin' good - strong lines but far apart, no subtle shading or cross-hatches 'cause that ain't nothin' but mud after it goes through the machine.
I swear, there ain't nobody but Zann who could keep that old mimeograph goin', but she can do just about anything with machines. She's just about the smartest person I know, with her patterns and machines and all. Prettiest, too. I don't mind when the machine breaks down, 'cause I can watch her while she fixes it. She never sits still long enough for me to paint her all proper, but I know what she looks like in my head so well that I almost don't need to see her to draw her.
But the posters took forever to do, and then last week there was that storm that blew down half of the posters in town so I had to make 'em all over again, and repaint the signs and wagons that got beat up by the hail. And then Sadie come in to say that two of her birds - Sadie's Singingest Songbirds - got lost in the storm and couldn't I paint her a couple till she trained the new ones up right?
So I'm painting that kind of painting, every night. Gettin' 'em done early today so I can go to the doc's party. I like birds, and I can do 'em pretty quick after all this practice. Quick lines, arching up and swooping down to make the curve of head and neck, brushing back for the wings, as light as if the lines were flyin' like birds themselves. There's a picture of two birds in no time at all, but it's nothin' but flat and pretty.
And then I reach for my knife. Not the palette knife, but the sharp clean one with brass fixin's to match the syringes and tubes. I put the blade against my arm, makin' another straight little line next to the others that the doc ain't had a chance to heal up yet. It hurts for a flash, and I have to try real hard not to cry. The blood starts to drip, red on white and then gone when it touches the paint, and then everything goes gray and blank.
Suddenly there's nothin' but feathers in my sight, each little strand standing out sharp and clean like tree branches on the sky in the winter sun. I see exactly where to put the last few touches. Bits of white for light in their eyes, shadows under their wings, not black just a darker shade of blue. All the layers of color building one over the other, not lookin' like anything on their own but all together making a feather and a bird. And the little bits made only of blood, the bits that will make them sing and fly and live. My heart's jumpin' and poundin' like it always does because this never gets old or dry, never ever.
"Fly home," I tell them. "Sing well." I know they will, and even though I still can't see anything, I feel the birds fly off to Sadie, and I smile.
[Open]