In White Sheets Waiting...... Painting

The cover of hidden silence behind the nonexistence of an internal prison . Beauty unable to be revealed and chained through spiritual chastity. Silently shrouded and hidden in society her inner soul screams to be free. Ownership, Frozen, Fear. The Black community in heart, the 30's 40's 50's.... St. James Infirmary (Hugh Laurie, LET THEM TALK) Story J Johnston; "In White Sheets Waiting' Wrapped in White Sheets, Waiting. Was that, a wink I said and then the piano began playing an old gospel blues song, from so long ago, so far in my past and down a lonely dirt road, where sour weed we chewed and the cicada sang in the shadows. A melody which blossomed in the humid Carolina night, then blew through shutters of someone’s, somewhere back porch resting place, on the stained battleship gray pine board porch which graced this home and burned memories in my heart. It was almost like I was somewhere, maybe here before but alone, without pretentions. Looking, looking, knowing that she was near and hoping that this time I had arrived in destiny, on point and with a spirit willing, while the music played and everyone in this moment danced. Like the heartbeat that kept Ms. Holiday on stage, her morphine holding her slender body draped in black, steady but slurred. Tonight, was a mystery to those who went down to the river to pray, leaving past sins in waters washed towards God’s sea, seeking salvation promised by the pounding fist of our pastor and cleansing souls from sin committed just today or one night before. 1920 was the year and that pimp banged out tunes on ivory from some place in the sunrise which lifted crushed hearts of lovers soon one and then abandoned in this nightly ritual. Now when was least expected silence drifted past the wide yawning birth in life’s harbor releasing savage thoughts and horrid memories from the past which melted dark moonless nights where a thousand searing white stars fell from heaven in silence. Tonight, like every night the whiskey poured freely on Duval Street and we watched as he-she’s pranced by outside, hoping some unexpected soul might mistake their nightmare concealed in obscurity and dime store face paint, as something of beauty. Private cues held in chalked hands, razors in socks for safety, we bonded within the darkness of our souls and the history of our ancestors long forgotten which were turned centuries before into dust. Vigilance our soul mate when holding our families close, tight and in guilt, inside that one bedroom roach infested shotgun staged shack, we children called home. Hungry when work was short and alone for those who spouses and children had left in frustration or through death, they sat staring at the stars in the sky asking God to spare them the pain taking all from this place into a dreamland filled with honey and promise, safety and opportunity. A place where the waters of the spirit cleansed their minds and washed all that was evil into ditches of blood red mud drying in the bright golden light of July. “Can’t you see the water” she asked as I pulled her from the fires of hell? “Can’t you see the windows and His people asking for me to come?”