Yellow came to me at midnight. It crept stealthily into the room and assaulted me. It is my sin and my happiness to tell you that I enjoyed yellow. There is nothing like yellow. The clock had struck midnight and the chimes sounded yellow; a brassy reggae melody cast into the glow of a 30-watt lightbulb. Yellow permeated the room.
So I gave myself to yellow and yellow is the best part of the rainbow; yellow is the untarnished shade of a golden coin. Yellow birds flit in and out of the trees and yellow butterflies populate poems. The skin of a corpse yellows before it decays and turns brown. Yellow is the best part of a gaudy pulp fiction magazine cover. Teeth are yellow. The neighbor’s dog is yellow and they own a yellow cat. They once owned a russet cat and I poisoned it. I only like yellow animals. A giraffe is yellow.
I created a yellow room. I call it the Robert W. Chambers room. The floor, walls and ceiling are yellow. The brass bed has yellow sheets and yellow blankets and yellow pillows. There is one bookcase, painted yellow, and the only books are dozens of copies of Dave Etter’s The Yellow House. My paintings are stacked about haphazardly. My theme is yellow. There is a painting of a yellow skull. There is a painting of a lonely man on a yellow street in sunlight, and the blue sea is glimpsed off on the left to show a little contrast, perhaps foreshadowing what comes next. My paintings of the sunset highway always have a flash of yellow. Our yellow president tells yellow lies. One of my nephews is a yellow bastard.
I went to New York, home of the Art-Speak community’s chattering pre-menstrual debutantes, where a small museum hosted a showing of my paintings. It was a great success. Everyone wore yellow. A young brunette in a tight yellow dress accented by yellow pearls, her yellow high-heels making a hollow sound as she clopped next to me, breathlessly asked: “What was your inspiration?” So as I sipped my golden wine from a glittering goblet I said, “I was on a deserted highway in Wyoming three years ago and the sky was yellow. I had not come far from Carcosa.” I loved it that she pretended to understand me.
But you can stay too long with yellow. Yellow can turn on you like a rabid dog or a film critic with a yellow spine. Yellow is the color of my true love’s panties. Mellow yellow is the new blue. Now it is April the first and the men in yellow have come. An army of men wearing yellow rain slickers and yellow boots holding yellow rifles, their visor’s splattered with yellow rain. They are lined up in the street, platoons of yellow military death come to take our lives away. Yellow is considered decadent. Fear creeps up my spine like a yellow caterpillar.
I am frightened and I am painting my room blue. I will love the blue although I know there will always be a place in my heart for yellow. Bring on the blue. Someone is knocking at the door. Is it a yellow man come to shatter my blue future? I dreamed my last painting will one day hang in a museum and it is called The King in Yellow (27 x 41acrylic on canvas) and it’s all the rage among the high-brow New York snobs.