The Starry Night has striking similarities to Whirlpool Galaxy,
a sketch made 44 years before van Gogh's work by Lord Rosse.
How cool is that?

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,

Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,

In colors on the snowy linen land.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry, starry night.

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,



Swirling clouds in violet haze,



Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue,


(Using maps, aerial photos, historical weather data and calculations
of the moon's position, researchers have determined the scene in
Van Gogh's Rising Moon: Haycocks occurred on July 13, 1889 at 9:08 p.m.)
morning field of amber grain,


The Potato Eaters by Shag

Weathered faces lined in pain
(LOL! Brutal as his times were, I'm certain Mr. van Gogh
cracked a smile, every now and again. Hope this gave you
a chuckle, Vincent! NOTE: To blot out this outrageous art-
blasphemy, the real Van Gogh The Potato Eaters is coming up.)
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight

On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one



As beautiful as you.



Starry, starry night.

Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,

The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,



Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

Now I think I know what you tried to

say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

"Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)" by Don McLean

TODAY, I PAY homage to a man who saw me through the times when shadows cast over me were at there darkest.

Happy Birthday,
Vincent Willem van Gogh!

I DRANK YOU in, and will forever crave
your masterpieces-like-frosted-cakes.

EVER SINCE MY eyes were opened to him and his work (seeing life "through the eyelashes, as if seeing beauty for the first time), I have gratefully and faithfully celebrated van Gogh's birthday and my obsession for him, each year on his special day. I fondly look back on one of the overboard times, remembering how I created a cake in the shape of my hamster, aptly named Vincent, which, instead of blowing out the candles on, I

ceremoniously cut off the ear

as the first serving, making a quiet wish first, then, frightening to my roommates who were kindly humoring me, I put the nozzle of a can of Betty Crocker red decorator icing to it and squirted madly.

FYI: WITHOUT intervention or medication, I have, for the most part (a-hem), put myself on simmer. (Yet, there was that one year when I wanted to don a lit chapeau, so I could experience being the living birthday cake that van Gogh many times was --Vincent often stuck candles on his hat so he could paint at night-- but the inkling was too dangerous, and fortunately, fleeting.) Nowadays, I meet March 30th in a much more acceptable fashion: ice cream and cake (Actually, this year, I suggested Elephant Ears from the bakery.)!

AND, TO THIS day, I carry in my billfold a copy of the a Vincent quote that I once kept hanging on the wall over the head of my bed-- words of which, not unlike his paintings, left a lasting impression on me:

"ONE MAY have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever comes to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney and continue on their way."

SIX WORDS: Paint your palette blue and grey.

SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

RIP My Mollo, Drea, and Vincent van Gogh

P.S.

Whirlpool Galaxy by Lord Rosse