Canary

Today I learned that Rene Magritte would apparently wake up every morning at 8:30 am. He would then put on his three piece suit, and work in his living room until 5:30.

I am feeling very tired.

Tired although not unhappy.

Tiredness, or at least the statement "I am tired," is often used to signify that something is wrong, isn't it?

After a long walk someone will say "I'm tired," or they'll say "I'm tired" when they're caught in a fight that they don't want to be involved with.

Someone will be invited to go out and do something, and they will say, as an excuse, "No thanks, I'm really tired."

So in all honesty I am a little bit sad right now.

I wonder what Rene Magritte's living room looked like.

I really don't know much of anything about him, or his work.

I know about the pipe.

I saw a painting of his tonight, of a ship on a blue ocean, and the ship looks like it is made of waves.

My teacher was talking a little bit about what is "reality" and what isn't.

I thought of Tim O'Brien's book The Things They Carried.

Stones in a soldiers stomach.

My teacher said tonight that he can't remember what he did yesterday, but he remembers some dreams that he had forty years ago.

I don't know if he meant dreams that he had had while he was asleep, or dreams about things that he wanted to happen.

I'm thinking that I would like to cut all of my hair off and begin wearing three piece suits.

We also watched the Dali movie, I can't remember the title, something about a chien and a word that begins with an "a", the film that the Decemberists reference in one of their songs.

Anyway there is a woman in the middle of the street in one scene, and she has short hair and she's stunningly beautiful.

I am not stunningly beautiful.

I was just reminded of that scene in The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind when Joel and Clementine are in bed together and he tells her "you're pretty, you're pretty, you're pretty," while he kisses her face.

I am sort of embarrassed for wanting something like that to happen to me...

It seems like such a girly thing to want, and I am such an insecure girl, that's how I've been, how I've grown up, how some people could describe me, but then I tell myself that it isn't girly to want love.

I used to sleep over my grandmother's house, my nana's house, and she would tell me stories sometimes. I remember that she said that her father, my great grandfather, used to always wear three piece suits and hats.

I wonder what he would think if he had a great granddaughter who cut off all of her hair and wore suits and hats that he could have borrowed.

Rene Magritte, my great grandfather, and me, in our three piece suits.

I picture us in a room with curtains, sitting around a small table. There is a yellow canary in a tall, standing wire bird cage. Magritte is either watching the bird or looking out the window. My great grandfather will make polite conversation and check his watch discreetly. I will with my left foot on my right knee. We will talk about the weather and drink tea.

I don't picture my great grandfather as being a very affectionate man. I have never heard him described in that way. My nana said that he was a faithful husband, who worked in order to support his family. Suits and hats. Routine.

I picture Rene Magritte as a man I could fall in love with.

Even his name, it tastes like butter to pronounce.

Could I ever be with another artist?

Am I an artist, myself?

Yes!

A painting of a pipe is not a pipe, it is only the illusion of a pipe.

The words we use to describe ourselves are not fact, just words.

Is that a bit of a stretch?

"Just words?"

What I mean is that I may call myself an "artist", but does that make me an artist? If Rene met me and saw my work and spat at my feet, would I still call myself an artist? Did he call himself an artist? What would my great grandfather have called himself?

"We are what we pretend to be, and so we must be careful what we pretend to be."

I am forever trying to define things and put people in boxes, so that I can better understand them.

I am an artist and I'm not an artist, I'm a girl and not exactly just a girl, Magritte and my great grandfather are dead, but they are not exactly dead, are they?

Why am I writing about them now?

"Just words?"

No!

I don't believe that.

I'm in love with words.

My face feels flushed.