Prose In Times Of Isolation: “On a May’s Sunday Morn'”

In the early morning I got up to visit the bathroom. Originally awkward as interrupted sleep is, it was such a relief. Recalling an oncoming Sunday, I went back to my warm bed and slept like a log.

My subconscious dipped into the final pieces of a dream about a missed out opportunity by a technical KO, when noises of my spouse woke me. I turned over and pulled my bedcovers over my head. For me waking up on a Sunday morn‘ still consists with a certain ceremony of a gradual awakening that entails stretching my body, feeling my senses return and only then would I endevear to pull my covers back and swing my legs out of bed to get up. This happens While I am still under the influence of a dream, my conscious working overtime to piece together the info that remained from my subconscous leaving in a hurry back to ‘Netherworld‘.

Immediately, in spite of my spouse’s acute need of telling me the latest news from the weekend paper, I step into the kitchen for preparing a cup of green tea. „You should come and listen to this article about the behaviour of kids, who are addicted to their cellphones.“ I dislike to be bombarded in the early hours of a morning’s wake with themes about importance to parents perhaps.

„It’s good for you“, I tell my wide-awake companion, „but I’m not in the least interested.“ She frowns and closes the door to the kitchen where I work. She carries on mumbling with her monologue that means that she hast to masticate her anger, of not being listened to like a child would, in order to overcome her efforts to pull me into her own morning rituals. We are after all two strong-willed individuals, who are set in our own ways of morning-rituals. Thanks for our half-a-century living together that has molded us to a point of living-together-mode acceptable to both of us, even if at times of extreme oestrogen overflow, hefty domestic quarrels will emerge. The wishful sex-part in a marriage had been neglected for a long time due to many unfortunate health problems, mainly on her side (but she’ll deny this fervently).  However, whenever I made amends with a Muse or an interested female fan of my artistic work, she had tolerated my straying in the end, as part of my artist’s character strait.

Living in a nearby hamlet, close to Vienna, I had for seven years worked-off my frustrations of living in a place that was neither our choice, nor was it desired as an ideal place for fitting in as last true individuals, into a society of conservative country folk. However, it was purely ecologically demanded. Yet, in time, the benefits of living near the capital have emerged out of fiery debates and sporting undertakings; my spouse with her dedicated jogging about the many pathways and her will set on mastering the nearby hills and heights near the famous Viennese Woods, while I preferred to scale the many trails to the Kahlenberg, Leopoldsberg, and to the perimeter walkaround oft he great city with my fascination of Nordic Walking.

Besides, tranquility at all times has influenced my artistic work, writing so called ‘Journal Poetry‘ and drawing some illustrations for my books of lyrical literature. Yes, I have been a happy person of creating art and my friends agree with me that living in this charming and quaint hamlet has done the world of good to my art. Indeed. Yet, it has also been a search for the truth about relationships, ours and the one of our friends. From endless debates, where we, the protagonists of my books, have evolved in words of my poetry and my novels. Additionally, I have been drifting back into my childhood, all of a sudden this door had opened and it showed me a most intimate and magnificent view of my psyche, I didn’t know about it in such depth and detail. It filled the pages of my memoires and novels, lyrical depictions of my drawings that I turned into descriptive words.

Now then, at this sacred hour, I have been watching the scenery of a garden with flowers and shrubs, bushes and trees depicting great art, my art. Perhaps the wish to become an artist has been, since childhood, such a strong desire that it stayed with me all my life. Finishing secondary school, I have been recommended by my art teacher to continue studying at the Fine Arts School of Vienna. But my mother had already mapped-out my career as an architect, so that I would return home to our house in the countryside and establish an architect’s practice there. Indeed? As a dutiful son, I have studied architecture at the Technical University of Vienna and with a few years interruption, where I worked as an assistant in an architect’s office, I have finally finished my degree. Not being chuffed with the culture of handling young architects in Vienna, I decided to absolve my five years of practical training in South Africa. It had been an interesting adventure and it related to carrying on with my art projects. As work dried-up in Africa, I returned to Austria to find a complete bureaucratic system that encompassed also the practicing as an architect in my home country.

Thanks to Amanda and her literary workshops in Johannesburg, I had turned to novel writing when work had dried up. Now it came to me of excellent use as I carried on writing. My drawing skills helped me with illustrating my lyrical works, which I could publish in Germany, at BoD, Norderstedt. It is of great pleasure to me working together with such a great publishing company facilitating poets and writers without any discrimination toward their artistic work.

Perhaps long years of suffering as an artist have lead to many drawings and paintings that were only possible with the support of friends, who took me into their extended family who appreciated art. Had not the father of my friend become a famous artist in his own regard? And where artists live, have lived, and Muses roam the gardens of fantasy and imaginations, new art will be born from within. Perhaps, striving to become an artist has a long spiral road compared to a labyrinth seated in society since antiquity.

Recently an interesting personality, I have met and became friendly with, has cast the shadow of renewed creativity onto the white glare of a common undertaking to present art and artist, poet and writer to the local scene of town and country. In these unfortunate times of isolation, due to governmental controls fighting a pandemic, the negative side will be turned with good will and the hard determination of artist and a tough-mined event-coordinating friend to reach a well-tuned public presentation. I am blessed with meeting good people, determined and hard-working. Viva good friends and Muses. Viva.

*