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My free writing repository. It started out as my Nanowrimo site but since that got thoroughly derailed by circumstance and apathy, I'm converting this blog to one where I will post my short stories, scenes and whatever else doesn't quite fit on Intellectual Poison or any of my other blogs.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
An Addict's Life
It is kind of funny, looking back over these years, the decades of time that's passed since I became aware of myself and now. I guess you'd call it your earliest memory. My mind's not quite what it used to be but then neither's my body. And it wasn't just time wearing on it. Years of self abuse of prostrating myself at the altar of hedonism had ruined my eyes, put crippling arthritis into my hands and that stupid bum ankle. If it weren't for the blessed pills, I'd probably be screaming or, at least, moaning loudly.
Sad thing is, there comes a day when pills or medicine can't block the pain. It becomes so strong and powerful that nothing stands in its way, only death can stop it. But that's okay, I've felt the same grip before. Living ninety four years was beyond the scope of my imagination when I was 26. How could I imagine it? A body more dead than alive, a mind that alternates between complete lucidity and then, nothing makes any damned sense. Like thoughts are letters in alphabet soup and they drift apart, its kind of maddening but is its own sort of dreamstate too.
I should know a little something about dreamstates, deleriums, visions, hallucinations, whatever you want to term altered realities. There was a long period of time through my teens, my twenties and through my thirties and forties that I took pretty well all manner of reality altering substances. Why not? One go around and all that crap, ya know?
Now I know. The thing about hindsight is that is, at its deepest, wasted and stupid energy. If only I go back, if only I could have stopped my 14 year old self and shown him the paths he was faced with. Make him choose instead of taking the water's way, the least resistance. Going with the flow. Hey, we're going to a party, come on. Here, have some shots, let's get fucked up! Mornings like weeks where I woke up on someone's floor or in some random bed, sometimes in my car on the side of the road, miles from anywhere. Days lost in blacked out stupors, hours lost in opiated floating ethereality, months of nothing.
And for what? Fun, the pursuit of pleasure, use it all up before the whole shithouse goes up in flames. But there were years of unhappiness in all of that chemicalized happiness. Bad marriages, angry children and more evil actions
It is kind of funny, looking back over these years, the decades of time that's passed since I became aware of myself and now. I guess you'd call it your earliest memory. My mind's not quite what it used to be but then neither's my body. And it wasn't just time wearing on it. Years of self abuse of prostrating myself at the altar of hedonism had ruined my eyes, put crippling arthritis into my hands and that stupid bum ankle. If it weren't for the blessed pills, I'd probably be screaming or, at least, moaning loudly.
Sad thing is, there comes a day when pills or medicine can't block the pain. It becomes so strong and powerful that nothing stands in its way, only death can stop it. But that's okay, I've felt the same grip before. Living ninety four years was beyond the scope of my imagination when I was 26. How could I imagine it? A body more dead than alive, a mind that alternates between complete lucidity and then, nothing makes any damned sense. Like thoughts are letters in alphabet soup and they drift apart, its kind of maddening but is its own sort of dreamstate too.
I should know a little something about dreamstates, deleriums, visions, hallucinations, whatever you want to term altered realities. There was a long period of time through my teens, my twenties and through my thirties and forties that I took pretty well all manner of reality altering substances. Why not? One go around and all that crap, ya know?
Now I know. The thing about hindsight is that is, at its deepest, wasted and stupid energy. If only I go back, if only I could have stopped my 14 year old self and shown him the paths he was faced with. Make him choose instead of taking the water's way, the least resistance. Going with the flow. Hey, we're going to a party, come on. Here, have some shots, let's get fucked up! Mornings like weeks where I woke up on someone's floor or in some random bed, sometimes in my car on the side of the road, miles from anywhere. Days lost in blacked out stupors, hours lost in opiated floating ethereality, months of nothing.
And for what? Fun, the pursuit of pleasure, use it all up before the whole shithouse goes up in flames. But there were years of unhappiness in all of that chemicalized happiness. Bad marriages, angry children and more evil actions
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Nuts to Tank, The Tale of Two Balls and their Friend, Dick, Meeting Tank, the Gas Tank
Two balls sad journey with their friend, the Dick, that ended with a horrible collision and the worst damn nausea ever imagined. But, as with all good stories, there is a silver lining. A story that was requested during one of the most fun business calls ever today with Ryan in which we somehow got on the topic of accidents and I disclosed this little tale, albeit without all the details and Ryan just really liked to say Nuts to Tank alot, in fact, I think he said it a good half dozen times. So Ryan, this one's for you. Also, note that this isn't a continuation of the chapters below, this blog has just become my free writing repository.
It was back in the winter of '91 or '92 and I had been living in Capetown, South Africa for about 8 months by then. It was New Years Eve and I had stopped off at a party bar on the outskirts of town to hang out with some of my co-workers from the health club where I worked.
It might have been that day or another but the bouncers were particularly irritating and stupid and booted me out because I happened to be wearing sweats instead of dress casual slacks or some nutter crap. It didn't matter to the big, fat, veiny necked door knob bouncer that I'd already been inside, had already been drinking with my mates upstairs on the balcony overlooking the entryway, it didn't matter that half my pals were yelling down at him that I'd been up there, he accused me, to my face, of lying to him to get in. At which point I laughed at him and told him it was a nice spot but certainly not worth trying to lie my way in and I'd make sure to pass along the anti-American attitude of the place. Which was no idle threat, this was in the last few months before the first elections where Nelson Mandela completed his transformation from young boxing phenom to political prisoner and symbol of oppression the world over to president of the same country that had imprisoned him, it was a damned amazing time to be there, to be sure.
Anyway, my night there was over but that was fine, I had several parties to go to that night and I probably should have gotten rolling before it got dark and I had more drinks there. Note that I had had a drink but was nowhere near inebriated or even impaired, I was in superb shape and weighed around 180 pounds at the time, you do the math. I was fine. And I knew it so I swung a leg over my speedy little crotch rocket Katana 550 (easily the fastest and most fun motorcycle I'd owned to that point) and began my short ride home. One quick stop at a bottle store to pick up a fresh fifth of First Watch Whiskey to be added to my backpack with my Nerf football (an oddity in South Africa and every kid kept trying to throw it underhand rugby style until I would demonstrate how far you could huck the thing overhand).
Sufficiently replenished with fun juice, I wheeled back out on the road towards my flat in Seapoint, a few towns down the road through Greenpoint, Moiullepoint and Three Anchor Bay (map of Capetown is available here). Not very far, six or seven kilometres at the most. And, since I was in a good mood from seeing my friends, I was buzzing along at a decent clip but not recklessly. The roads through the towns were four lanes wide and, since they drive UK style, I was on the left hand side of the road, close to the center line where the through traffic was supposed to be, the leftmost lane was reserved for people trolling for parking spaces.
As I passed through Moiullepoint I glanced down at my speedo to make sure I wasn't carrying too much speed. When I looked up, an old man in his little Nissan had changed lanes from the slow, parking spot trolling lane to the through lane. And he'd come to a dead stop with his blinker on to make an illegal u-turn to get to a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. With only an instant to react I jerked the bars left and shifted my weight as sharply as possible in an effort to clear his rear bumper. With another three feet of space between my bike and his car, I would have made it. But, as it happened, I did not get by him and rammed into his car at about 45 kilometres an hour or just under 30 mph.
Unlike my next motorcycle accident where I'd taken the painful lessons learned to heart, I did not rise up on my footpegs, did not have time to clear myself from the bike and my body basically went into and then over the Katana. Initial point of impact? Nuts to tank, followed in very high speed motion stop imagery by left knee to handlebar. A short fifteen foot flight later I had flipped over once and landed on my right ass cheek with all of my weight and impact force. At some point in the action I removed an inch long, half inch wide swath of skin from my ankle and received a few other very minor cuts.
After a moment's assessment of the extent of my injuries and seeing my once beautiful Katana laying in bloody ruins, I turned my rising fury on the asshole old man who had gotten out of his car on the other side of the street and looked like he'd crapped himself.
Picture an out of control American biker throwing his helmet on the ground and screaming all manner of curses at this stupid old man for breaking the law and nearly killing me. He wouldn't come near me, he wouldn't cross the street and its a good thing because I probably would have kicked him until he was dead. Regardless of the fact that my injuries were going to start hurting badly any moment once the initial shock of the accident wore off.
The police showed up, assessed the accident and immediately assigned all blame to the asshole old man. Which was all well and good but my bike was wrecked, my body was in a growing and alarming amount of pain and he was standing there looking like he was guilty for drinking the last of the milk.
One of the cops sat me down, told me to stop screaming at him and tell him what had happened. Sitting down was a bad idea because it compacted the space that my balls had to swell into as they had taken the immediate brunt of the impact and were going to be screaming bloody murder at me very, very soon. But sitting was a good idea from the perspective that I became very lightheaded and might have fallen down.
My ankle was bleeding decently well and my left knee was swollen up pretty good with an already purpling bruise spreading over it. Seeing the blood left me weak and I started to feel nauseous. After getting all the information they needed and waiting with my while the tow truck came to haul away my ruined cycle, they offered me a lift home.
My flat was on the second story and it took me a good fifteen minutes to slowly get myself up the stairs. My flatmate was gone for the holiday and all of my friends were already out getting pissed at parties so I had no choice but to settle in and deal with my injuries on my own.
It took an eternity to get out of my clothes and examine myself. The damage was comical in retrospect but horrifying in that moment. Imagine a rectangular bruise about four inches high and about ten inches wide, now imagine that bruise starting on one thigh and ending on the other thigh with your balls and dick right in the middle. Now imagine having been kicked in the nuts thirty or forty times. Now imagine a couple of kicks into your knee. Now imagine how much fun it was to not only go to the bathroom but how much fun it was to actually get to the bathroom. I had to use a chair for support as I had no strength in my knee at all and the nausea was all but overpowering and the chair made a good place to rest on the journey.
It sucked badly and I was feeling pretty damned piss poor by that time. I happened to pick up my backpack and feel the weight of the bottle of whiskey in it. I opened the pack incredulously and saw that the bottle was completely intact despite having been on my back the entire time through the accident. It was a miracle! A ten minute round trip to the kitchen and back and I was settled on the couch with an open bottle, a large tumbler and the remote control.
Ten minutes later, I'd given up on the tv. Four channels to choose from and all of them sucked (and yes, this was with cable). So I turned almost all of my attention to that big beautiful bottle of amber fire water. Part of my attention had to be focused on my injuries as several were screaming at any given time. Strangely, the most painful one was the small slice of skin removed from my ankle. If the slightest breeze blew it was like setting fire to my leg.
One large glass of whiskey in, things began to feel a little better. A puff or two on my bubbler with some of South Africa's finest ganja completed the medication and I was able to doze off for a little while. Until the fireworks celebration for New Year's started going off on Lion's Head, the mountain right behind my flat. I lay in bed feeling each explosion as a seering pain through my body but was too tired, too sore, too weak to get up and drink more whiskey. I think that might have been the longest night of my life.
Two balls sad journey with their friend, the Dick, that ended with a horrible collision and the worst damn nausea ever imagined. But, as with all good stories, there is a silver lining. A story that was requested during one of the most fun business calls ever today with Ryan in which we somehow got on the topic of accidents and I disclosed this little tale, albeit without all the details and Ryan just really liked to say Nuts to Tank alot, in fact, I think he said it a good half dozen times. So Ryan, this one's for you. Also, note that this isn't a continuation of the chapters below, this blog has just become my free writing repository.
It was back in the winter of '91 or '92 and I had been living in Capetown, South Africa for about 8 months by then. It was New Years Eve and I had stopped off at a party bar on the outskirts of town to hang out with some of my co-workers from the health club where I worked.
It might have been that day or another but the bouncers were particularly irritating and stupid and booted me out because I happened to be wearing sweats instead of dress casual slacks or some nutter crap. It didn't matter to the big, fat, veiny necked door knob bouncer that I'd already been inside, had already been drinking with my mates upstairs on the balcony overlooking the entryway, it didn't matter that half my pals were yelling down at him that I'd been up there, he accused me, to my face, of lying to him to get in. At which point I laughed at him and told him it was a nice spot but certainly not worth trying to lie my way in and I'd make sure to pass along the anti-American attitude of the place. Which was no idle threat, this was in the last few months before the first elections where Nelson Mandela completed his transformation from young boxing phenom to political prisoner and symbol of oppression the world over to president of the same country that had imprisoned him, it was a damned amazing time to be there, to be sure.
Anyway, my night there was over but that was fine, I had several parties to go to that night and I probably should have gotten rolling before it got dark and I had more drinks there. Note that I had had a drink but was nowhere near inebriated or even impaired, I was in superb shape and weighed around 180 pounds at the time, you do the math. I was fine. And I knew it so I swung a leg over my speedy little crotch rocket Katana 550 (easily the fastest and most fun motorcycle I'd owned to that point) and began my short ride home. One quick stop at a bottle store to pick up a fresh fifth of First Watch Whiskey to be added to my backpack with my Nerf football (an oddity in South Africa and every kid kept trying to throw it underhand rugby style until I would demonstrate how far you could huck the thing overhand).
Sufficiently replenished with fun juice, I wheeled back out on the road towards my flat in Seapoint, a few towns down the road through Greenpoint, Moiullepoint and Three Anchor Bay (map of Capetown is available here). Not very far, six or seven kilometres at the most. And, since I was in a good mood from seeing my friends, I was buzzing along at a decent clip but not recklessly. The roads through the towns were four lanes wide and, since they drive UK style, I was on the left hand side of the road, close to the center line where the through traffic was supposed to be, the leftmost lane was reserved for people trolling for parking spaces.
As I passed through Moiullepoint I glanced down at my speedo to make sure I wasn't carrying too much speed. When I looked up, an old man in his little Nissan had changed lanes from the slow, parking spot trolling lane to the through lane. And he'd come to a dead stop with his blinker on to make an illegal u-turn to get to a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. With only an instant to react I jerked the bars left and shifted my weight as sharply as possible in an effort to clear his rear bumper. With another three feet of space between my bike and his car, I would have made it. But, as it happened, I did not get by him and rammed into his car at about 45 kilometres an hour or just under 30 mph.
Unlike my next motorcycle accident where I'd taken the painful lessons learned to heart, I did not rise up on my footpegs, did not have time to clear myself from the bike and my body basically went into and then over the Katana. Initial point of impact? Nuts to tank, followed in very high speed motion stop imagery by left knee to handlebar. A short fifteen foot flight later I had flipped over once and landed on my right ass cheek with all of my weight and impact force. At some point in the action I removed an inch long, half inch wide swath of skin from my ankle and received a few other very minor cuts.
After a moment's assessment of the extent of my injuries and seeing my once beautiful Katana laying in bloody ruins, I turned my rising fury on the asshole old man who had gotten out of his car on the other side of the street and looked like he'd crapped himself.
Picture an out of control American biker throwing his helmet on the ground and screaming all manner of curses at this stupid old man for breaking the law and nearly killing me. He wouldn't come near me, he wouldn't cross the street and its a good thing because I probably would have kicked him until he was dead. Regardless of the fact that my injuries were going to start hurting badly any moment once the initial shock of the accident wore off.
The police showed up, assessed the accident and immediately assigned all blame to the asshole old man. Which was all well and good but my bike was wrecked, my body was in a growing and alarming amount of pain and he was standing there looking like he was guilty for drinking the last of the milk.
One of the cops sat me down, told me to stop screaming at him and tell him what had happened. Sitting down was a bad idea because it compacted the space that my balls had to swell into as they had taken the immediate brunt of the impact and were going to be screaming bloody murder at me very, very soon. But sitting was a good idea from the perspective that I became very lightheaded and might have fallen down.
My ankle was bleeding decently well and my left knee was swollen up pretty good with an already purpling bruise spreading over it. Seeing the blood left me weak and I started to feel nauseous. After getting all the information they needed and waiting with my while the tow truck came to haul away my ruined cycle, they offered me a lift home.
My flat was on the second story and it took me a good fifteen minutes to slowly get myself up the stairs. My flatmate was gone for the holiday and all of my friends were already out getting pissed at parties so I had no choice but to settle in and deal with my injuries on my own.
It took an eternity to get out of my clothes and examine myself. The damage was comical in retrospect but horrifying in that moment. Imagine a rectangular bruise about four inches high and about ten inches wide, now imagine that bruise starting on one thigh and ending on the other thigh with your balls and dick right in the middle. Now imagine having been kicked in the nuts thirty or forty times. Now imagine a couple of kicks into your knee. Now imagine how much fun it was to not only go to the bathroom but how much fun it was to actually get to the bathroom. I had to use a chair for support as I had no strength in my knee at all and the nausea was all but overpowering and the chair made a good place to rest on the journey.
It sucked badly and I was feeling pretty damned piss poor by that time. I happened to pick up my backpack and feel the weight of the bottle of whiskey in it. I opened the pack incredulously and saw that the bottle was completely intact despite having been on my back the entire time through the accident. It was a miracle! A ten minute round trip to the kitchen and back and I was settled on the couch with an open bottle, a large tumbler and the remote control.
Ten minutes later, I'd given up on the tv. Four channels to choose from and all of them sucked (and yes, this was with cable). So I turned almost all of my attention to that big beautiful bottle of amber fire water. Part of my attention had to be focused on my injuries as several were screaming at any given time. Strangely, the most painful one was the small slice of skin removed from my ankle. If the slightest breeze blew it was like setting fire to my leg.
One large glass of whiskey in, things began to feel a little better. A puff or two on my bubbler with some of South Africa's finest ganja completed the medication and I was able to doze off for a little while. Until the fireworks celebration for New Year's started going off on Lion's Head, the mountain right behind my flat. I lay in bed feeling each explosion as a seering pain through my body but was too tired, too sore, too weak to get up and drink more whiskey. I think that might have been the longest night of my life.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Waking Up on Venus
Astrid lounged herself awake, stretching herself out like a cat will. The sun's rays and her contented smile almost made Ian think that she was purring, but it was only his own heart beating in his chest. She had slept in his bed, sort of. She'd fallen asleep and Ian couldn't bear himself and wouldn't be able to live with himself if he woke her and let her go. The fact that she felt safe enough to sleep in his place, in his space and in his bed, with clothes on but in his bed nonetheless filled him with a strange and calm joy. He'd been awake most of the night, looking at her as she slept, so quietly, so still and smiling ever so slightly.
Ian had gotten out of the bed an hour or two before and had silently set up his easel and paints and then set to trying to capture how the morning looked and felt. The bright morning sun began to create that marvelous and slow yellow light that is heat, it warms everything it shines upon. He outlined the window, the bed and then, in a single swift and perfect movement, painted the tapering arc of her silhouetted hip. A few more simple and precise swipes with his brush and he knew this would be one of his best ever, something with the otherworldly charge of having been able to breath in the air of one's muse for almost an entire night. He hadn't been able to think because he had been absorbing a charge of power from her, feeling her presence awake lost thoughts, lost emotions in him. He felt more alive than ever before.
Astrid opened her eyes to see the back of the easel and Ian behind it. "Found something worth painting?"
"I hope you don't mind, I couldn't sleep and sometimes I just need to paint and you looked so lovely there. I should have asked, I'm sorry," he stammered out, suddenly feeling quite exposed and vulnerable to her for some reason. And it bothered him some.
"Don't be silly, I don't mind in the least. Do you want me to lay back down?"
"Yes but not for the painting," slipped out of him.
"Eh? What was that?" she asked him and he caught her smiling and realized that she was kidding.
He let out a laugh and she joined him.
"I do want to try and get as much of this done before the light changes, its like this for only a short while," he said to her after enjoying the shared lightness, the lack of awkwardness between made him happy inside, like he'd passed some test or perhaps it was the exposure to the muse.
"Oh please do, I'm very curious about it now but will force myself to wait until you are satisfied with it before I will look at it," she declared.
"Then you may never get to look at it because I always want to change something about my paintings, some color, some gradation of the brush stroke, something that sticks out."
"So you're a perfectionist then? Isn't perfection in art a contradiction of some kind?"
"Maybe it is, I never really thought of myself as a perfectionist, more of a nitpicker, I guess," he said to her with another laugh. He continued to paint what he could before the light slipped away and the normal full bright sunlight of the day was flooding the room and driving out the yellowness.
"Well that should do for now, the light's gone off and my stomach just started growling, are you busy for breakfast?" he asked as he carefully leaned the wet painting against the wall, "If you don't want to see it then try not to look over at this wall, okay?"
"Oh don't be silly, if you're done with it for now then let's have a look," she got up and walked over to where he had set the painting. She looked down at it for a moment, then she squatted down to view it at the right height.
"Its beautiful," she exclaimed, her hand reaching out to it.
Ian caught her hand just before she brushed against the wet paint, "That's probably not a good idea for a couple of weeks."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't even notice my hand reaching out for it, its quite beautiful, Ian, I love it," she stood back up and looked at him. "How about I take you out to breakfast?"
Ian looked startled, as if he'd never considered her taking him out, and then smiled, nodded his head and said, "Seems only fair since I probably just made you famous."
"What? How do you mean?"
"Well, this is going to sound like bragging but I think this painting might be something special, that it might become famous. I know, I know," he held up a hand to keep her from interrupting him, "I can't explain it. I was painting it and feeling something truly wonderful wash over me not once or twice but again and again, sustaining the effort. That's why it took so little time to paint, it was like there was someone or something helping me."
"Hmm, well I don't quite know what to make of that, I thought you didn't believe in ghosts or god or heaven?"
"Well no, that's not quite right. I don't think I believe in a heaven, hell or god but I haven't ruled out ghosts and other paranormal phenomena yet, there's actually a fair amount of empirical data to prove they do exist rather than they do not," he explained. "I don't think I'm explaining it properly, I don't think it can be explained at all, it was beyond my ability to explain it."
"Sounds like it was fun though," she added.
"Maybe that's what they mean by being 'in the zone'?"
"No, I'm pretty sure that one's about sex. And, for the record, I think I like your explanation for your theology," she put an arm around him and gave him a half hug.
He gathered himself together, they stopped at her place for a moment and then were out the door. There were two good places to have breakfast within short walking distance of the apartment, one was a bit modern and, Ian thought, tried to be too hip with food when, at breakfast time, people just want to eat. The other made an excellent salmon benedict, they opted for the benedict and spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee, talking art, politics and making up conversations between the other patrons of the restaurant.
1111
Astrid lounged herself awake, stretching herself out like a cat will. The sun's rays and her contented smile almost made Ian think that she was purring, but it was only his own heart beating in his chest. She had slept in his bed, sort of. She'd fallen asleep and Ian couldn't bear himself and wouldn't be able to live with himself if he woke her and let her go. The fact that she felt safe enough to sleep in his place, in his space and in his bed, with clothes on but in his bed nonetheless filled him with a strange and calm joy. He'd been awake most of the night, looking at her as she slept, so quietly, so still and smiling ever so slightly.
Ian had gotten out of the bed an hour or two before and had silently set up his easel and paints and then set to trying to capture how the morning looked and felt. The bright morning sun began to create that marvelous and slow yellow light that is heat, it warms everything it shines upon. He outlined the window, the bed and then, in a single swift and perfect movement, painted the tapering arc of her silhouetted hip. A few more simple and precise swipes with his brush and he knew this would be one of his best ever, something with the otherworldly charge of having been able to breath in the air of one's muse for almost an entire night. He hadn't been able to think because he had been absorbing a charge of power from her, feeling her presence awake lost thoughts, lost emotions in him. He felt more alive than ever before.
Astrid opened her eyes to see the back of the easel and Ian behind it. "Found something worth painting?"
"I hope you don't mind, I couldn't sleep and sometimes I just need to paint and you looked so lovely there. I should have asked, I'm sorry," he stammered out, suddenly feeling quite exposed and vulnerable to her for some reason. And it bothered him some.
"Don't be silly, I don't mind in the least. Do you want me to lay back down?"
"Yes but not for the painting," slipped out of him.
"Eh? What was that?" she asked him and he caught her smiling and realized that she was kidding.
He let out a laugh and she joined him.
"I do want to try and get as much of this done before the light changes, its like this for only a short while," he said to her after enjoying the shared lightness, the lack of awkwardness between made him happy inside, like he'd passed some test or perhaps it was the exposure to the muse.
"Oh please do, I'm very curious about it now but will force myself to wait until you are satisfied with it before I will look at it," she declared.
"Then you may never get to look at it because I always want to change something about my paintings, some color, some gradation of the brush stroke, something that sticks out."
"So you're a perfectionist then? Isn't perfection in art a contradiction of some kind?"
"Maybe it is, I never really thought of myself as a perfectionist, more of a nitpicker, I guess," he said to her with another laugh. He continued to paint what he could before the light slipped away and the normal full bright sunlight of the day was flooding the room and driving out the yellowness.
"Well that should do for now, the light's gone off and my stomach just started growling, are you busy for breakfast?" he asked as he carefully leaned the wet painting against the wall, "If you don't want to see it then try not to look over at this wall, okay?"
"Oh don't be silly, if you're done with it for now then let's have a look," she got up and walked over to where he had set the painting. She looked down at it for a moment, then she squatted down to view it at the right height.
"Its beautiful," she exclaimed, her hand reaching out to it.
Ian caught her hand just before she brushed against the wet paint, "That's probably not a good idea for a couple of weeks."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't even notice my hand reaching out for it, its quite beautiful, Ian, I love it," she stood back up and looked at him. "How about I take you out to breakfast?"
Ian looked startled, as if he'd never considered her taking him out, and then smiled, nodded his head and said, "Seems only fair since I probably just made you famous."
"What? How do you mean?"
"Well, this is going to sound like bragging but I think this painting might be something special, that it might become famous. I know, I know," he held up a hand to keep her from interrupting him, "I can't explain it. I was painting it and feeling something truly wonderful wash over me not once or twice but again and again, sustaining the effort. That's why it took so little time to paint, it was like there was someone or something helping me."
"Hmm, well I don't quite know what to make of that, I thought you didn't believe in ghosts or god or heaven?"
"Well no, that's not quite right. I don't think I believe in a heaven, hell or god but I haven't ruled out ghosts and other paranormal phenomena yet, there's actually a fair amount of empirical data to prove they do exist rather than they do not," he explained. "I don't think I'm explaining it properly, I don't think it can be explained at all, it was beyond my ability to explain it."
"Sounds like it was fun though," she added.
"Maybe that's what they mean by being 'in the zone'?"
"No, I'm pretty sure that one's about sex. And, for the record, I think I like your explanation for your theology," she put an arm around him and gave him a half hug.
He gathered himself together, they stopped at her place for a moment and then were out the door. There were two good places to have breakfast within short walking distance of the apartment, one was a bit modern and, Ian thought, tried to be too hip with food when, at breakfast time, people just want to eat. The other made an excellent salmon benedict, they opted for the benedict and spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee, talking art, politics and making up conversations between the other patrons of the restaurant.
1111
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Years Later, A Surprise Package
Ian returned home one day to find a large package waiting just inside the door to the building addressed to him.
After stuggling to get it upstairs and into the apartment, he opened the package up to find a gilt gold cage with no bottom or door. A note from Astrid explaining why.
"It was so beautiful that I had to have it but not as a cage , I made them remove the door and bottom so that nothing could ever be held in it. The finest prison is still a prison and no living thing should ever be locked away in a cage, even if it is for your own good. But Ian, keep it for me, keep it until I return....."
And his eyes locked on to that one single word, it opened a flood of emotional debris and pent up longings and frustrations. Return. Keep it for her for when she returns.
And before he knew it, he had that stupid, shit eater grin that fools get when they get the jumble in the daily rag. Return.
The word held so much promise and intrigue. Genuine happiness welled up from inside of me and Ian blossomed into one of those rare magnetically happy moods. It creates a radiant circle of pleasure that affects anyone near you, makes them lighten up, cheer up and look up. Its probably something to do with pheromones and timed injections with testorone tossed in or something like that, but it doesn’t matter what makes it happen, only that it does happen.
Return.
He felt like running up and down the street and shaking the hand of every man, woman, child, dog or cat that he came across. Shouting at the top of my lungs, exhulting from on high.
Ian looked at the cage and saw what had made her love it instantly, it was sparkling and it was precise and wickedly beautiful with soft edges protected by points and barriers. It was almost a reflection of her, or, more accurately, what she wanted to be. The door was gone and left a gap in the gilt pattern, the floor was also gone but that, strangely, didn’t detract from the effect at all, rather, it added an element of release. Also very much in character for Astrid.
The first thing he decided he would have to do is come up with different name for it than a cage, because it could never contain anything that didn’t want to stay in it. But that thought kept pumping, thumping and rushing through my brain and body, its electric current message undeniable and exultant.
After the flush had eased up a bit and he regained a sense of where he was and what was going on. Ian picked up the letter again and finished it, hoping for more of an idea of when he might expect to see her. But there was nothing else, no mention of when or if and if he couldn’t reread the earlier section it would be pretty easy to dismiss it as his own fancied imagination. She wasn't coming back, he felt that deep within his chest, next to the hole her sudden departure had torn in him. He thought she was never returning after the scandal that had broken, the public outcry over her, the tabloids camping out in the doorway, the flashbulbs blinding her at every turn.
But he had the cage and the note from her and they were his hope, his only bright glowing potential joy and he clung to each of them as desperately as a man clings to a soggy life vest in a heaving sea.
617
Ian returned home one day to find a large package waiting just inside the door to the building addressed to him.
After stuggling to get it upstairs and into the apartment, he opened the package up to find a gilt gold cage with no bottom or door. A note from Astrid explaining why.
"It was so beautiful that I had to have it but not as a cage , I made them remove the door and bottom so that nothing could ever be held in it. The finest prison is still a prison and no living thing should ever be locked away in a cage, even if it is for your own good. But Ian, keep it for me, keep it until I return....."
And his eyes locked on to that one single word, it opened a flood of emotional debris and pent up longings and frustrations. Return. Keep it for her for when she returns.
And before he knew it, he had that stupid, shit eater grin that fools get when they get the jumble in the daily rag. Return.
The word held so much promise and intrigue. Genuine happiness welled up from inside of me and Ian blossomed into one of those rare magnetically happy moods. It creates a radiant circle of pleasure that affects anyone near you, makes them lighten up, cheer up and look up. Its probably something to do with pheromones and timed injections with testorone tossed in or something like that, but it doesn’t matter what makes it happen, only that it does happen.
Return.
He felt like running up and down the street and shaking the hand of every man, woman, child, dog or cat that he came across. Shouting at the top of my lungs, exhulting from on high.
Ian looked at the cage and saw what had made her love it instantly, it was sparkling and it was precise and wickedly beautiful with soft edges protected by points and barriers. It was almost a reflection of her, or, more accurately, what she wanted to be. The door was gone and left a gap in the gilt pattern, the floor was also gone but that, strangely, didn’t detract from the effect at all, rather, it added an element of release. Also very much in character for Astrid.
The first thing he decided he would have to do is come up with different name for it than a cage, because it could never contain anything that didn’t want to stay in it. But that thought kept pumping, thumping and rushing through my brain and body, its electric current message undeniable and exultant.
After the flush had eased up a bit and he regained a sense of where he was and what was going on. Ian picked up the letter again and finished it, hoping for more of an idea of when he might expect to see her. But there was nothing else, no mention of when or if and if he couldn’t reread the earlier section it would be pretty easy to dismiss it as his own fancied imagination. She wasn't coming back, he felt that deep within his chest, next to the hole her sudden departure had torn in him. He thought she was never returning after the scandal that had broken, the public outcry over her, the tabloids camping out in the doorway, the flashbulbs blinding her at every turn.
But he had the cage and the note from her and they were his hope, his only bright glowing potential joy and he clung to each of them as desperately as a man clings to a soggy life vest in a heaving sea.
617
Months later, after they'd actually gotten a chance to spend some time together and realize that there was enough there to carry a friendship (though Ian's heart fell when Astrid settled on friendship, he'd been thinking of something a bit more, ummm, intimate than friendship). They would meet up for walks through the park, sometimes pretending to be in love (a stretch for Ian) and sometimes pretending to be other things, a movie star and producer, an artist and subject or a couple of ex's getting together for one last walk.
They created a sort of fantasy world to travel through together, making up histories, occasionally making loud scenes so that other people would stare at them and wonder just what the heck was going on.
Astrid enjoyed it immensely after her recent history of solo excursions where she'd be forced to deal with the cacophony of waggling voices in her head extoling her failures and denying her any respite from the hellstorm that her private life had become.
Her private life before she'd known Ian and the life she lived when he wasn't around. When his natural calm was missing and she was left alone and almost adrift with her discordance.
On one walk, she was feeling mildly peckish and was pretending to be a non stop commercial, morphing tag lines from product to product with nonsense like, "The new Fab, its delicious and really can take paint of your walls while leaving your clothes with a clean, fresh scent," or "Drive the new Honda Crockpot, its got an all day timer for the juiciest pot roasts you'll ever have coming out of your glove box."
And Ian would soak it all in, enjoying her being silly, playful and happy. He'd laugh on time, add a quip or two to hers and set her off giggling.
Those were the moments that he wanted to save, to freeze them up and keep them for those days when she was gone, busy or disturbed or for when she had moved on with her life, as he felt in his pessimistic soul. That she would, one day, disappear from his life as quickly as she had entered it. Leaving a gaping hole but gone nonetheless. He'd mentioned it to her once, during a more serious walk.
"You wouldn't just up and leave, would you? You'd have to at least stop by and say goodbye," he said to her, his arm grasped in her gloved fingers and the subtle scent of her perfume dancing across his face, mixed with the smell of the pending autumn and winter.
434
They created a sort of fantasy world to travel through together, making up histories, occasionally making loud scenes so that other people would stare at them and wonder just what the heck was going on.
Astrid enjoyed it immensely after her recent history of solo excursions where she'd be forced to deal with the cacophony of waggling voices in her head extoling her failures and denying her any respite from the hellstorm that her private life had become.
Her private life before she'd known Ian and the life she lived when he wasn't around. When his natural calm was missing and she was left alone and almost adrift with her discordance.
On one walk, she was feeling mildly peckish and was pretending to be a non stop commercial, morphing tag lines from product to product with nonsense like, "The new Fab, its delicious and really can take paint of your walls while leaving your clothes with a clean, fresh scent," or "Drive the new Honda Crockpot, its got an all day timer for the juiciest pot roasts you'll ever have coming out of your glove box."
And Ian would soak it all in, enjoying her being silly, playful and happy. He'd laugh on time, add a quip or two to hers and set her off giggling.
Those were the moments that he wanted to save, to freeze them up and keep them for those days when she was gone, busy or disturbed or for when she had moved on with her life, as he felt in his pessimistic soul. That she would, one day, disappear from his life as quickly as she had entered it. Leaving a gaping hole but gone nonetheless. He'd mentioned it to her once, during a more serious walk.
"You wouldn't just up and leave, would you? You'd have to at least stop by and say goodbye," he said to her, his arm grasped in her gloved fingers and the subtle scent of her perfume dancing across his face, mixed with the smell of the pending autumn and winter.
434
