Sketches from the Heart of a Texas Artist: Part II
As I stared down the dusty, west Dallas street, certain that I had abolished the dark shadow of despair, I allowed myself a moment to revel in the tranquility of its absence. Only for a moment, though. Because as soon as one weight lifted from my shoulders, I was struck by another. This wasn’t over. This would be an ongoing battle: an introspective journey in search of this shadow’s ultimate cremation. Leaning against the gallery door, my pencil placed on the hot-pressed paper of my sketchbook, I lightly sketched a conjured vision. I looked down and saw the limned shape of a Bermuda-rigged sloop, floating in a bay as the sun hung lazily above the horizon. I placed my sketch book back in my bag next to my revolver. I ran apace to my scratched up Passat, lit the engine, and headed south toward the coast. If the island didn't have the answers I needed, then perhaps I would find them in the waters just beyond, glistening in the gulf stream, highlighting stories from my past. If I hurried, I’d be there by moon rise.