Understanding an Artist

I haven't been putting this off, I promise. I actually only write these blogs when I'm at work and I've been really busy. I got my inspiration to write something depressing about four nights ago and I planned to get it out there the very next day, but this is the first chance I've had log on in since the idea came to me. Then I had planned to write it and post it last night, but my best friend broke up with his skank-ass girlfriend who had been whoring her way around Council Bluffs and we all went out to celebrate the fact that she is gone. Yay! So finally, I pass my depressing story on to you:

She could remember when she first sat down in front of this canvas. She had brought it home wedged into her '88 Mercury Tracer hatchback, which meant she had hunched over the wheel just to fit in her car with the canvas at the same time. Thankfully, Blick's was close to home and she didn't have to drive very far. She didn't stretch her own canvases and she was sure other artists scoffed at the fact that she had pre-made canvases purchased from a store. For shame! She didn't blend her own oils either. Gasp! She didn't really care about the dynamics of paint blending or canvas stretching. She wasn't under the impression that doing these things would make her a better painter or give her a better understanding her own work, so why do it? She was here to paint the damn thing not break a sweat on the pre-work. She also didn't like to dilute the thick paint as so many artist do just to make it last longer. That's the last straw! You don't know what it means to be a real artist! She didn't care what other people thought of her work. She had always done it to please herself, not others. The fact that her work actually sold in the last show was just a delightful bonus as far as she was concerned.

She had turned what was supposed to be a dinning room into her art studio when she had first moved into this apartment. She blocked the doorway to the kitchen with a Chinese screen that was now splattered with a variety of color. She had drop cloths covering the floor so she didn't have to pay for new carpet when she moved out and that had been enough protection until she had bought this canvas. It was the biggest one she had ever tried to use so she didn't have an easel large enough to hold it. Instead, she had pinned another drop cloth to the back wall and just leaned the canvas right against it and hoped for the best. She had been so excited to start this canvas. It was the start of a whole new direction to her art. No longer would she have dark depressing pieces that sometimes scared the people who visited the gallery. Everything had been a little brighter in her life that day. She had just discovered that she was going to have a baby with her boyfriend that she had been with for just over a year and he had nearly leaped out of his skin with joy when she had told him. She had celebrated by buying the biggest canvas the store had in stock.

That seemed like ages ago, now. Now, she stared at the half finished canvas with contempt. A streamer of purple and blue wound its way across the center of the six foot canvas. The two colors blurred together towards the right side and tapered off right before it went off the edge. The cerulean blue was his favorite color. Half the damn apartment was blue because of him. She had always leaned more towards the dark rich purple that at one time was only associated with nobility. The colors blended together reminding her of the sky at dusk when the weather was just right. She had been very proud of the way that ribbon of color had turned out. Above this split, a faceless child had begun to form out of the wild and chaotic streaks of paint. Nothing but the best colors had been used and as the reds, oranges and yellows blurred together the form had become clear to her that it was her child. Her, currently faceless and sexless, child was the most perfect thing she had created with oils on canvas since she had decided to become an artist. The painting had been frozen in this state for a month and a half. That's when everything had started or, more accurately, that when everything had unraveled on her.

It has only been a month and a half.

Methodically she began to squeeze the thick paint onto her palate and prepared to continue what she had started before..... before a month and a half ago happened. Her hands trembled slightly and tightened over the tube she was holding. The fiery red blob tripled in size and melted into the smaller brown blob that was already on the palate. She released the, now almost empty, tube onto her supply table and inhaled sharply. The two colors melding together reminding her too much of blood. She took a step back away from the table and looked back at the painting again. Then she looked down and squeezed her eyes shut against the horrible truth that the picture she had begun painting months ago was a lie. That child doesn't exist. It's a lie. "Oh, God," she whispered to herself as the memories invaded her head again.

She had been painting when it had started. A sharp stab starting in her lower back and twisting through to her lower abdomen. The pain had ripped through her which made her scream a moment before dropping to a squatting position in front of her painting. Blood, that looked like her oil paints, was pooling on the drop cloth at her feet. She had screamed again.... his name. And he hadn't responded. The pain wasn't constant though, so she managed to crawl away from her work and down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. There was a stream of blood trailing her down the hall -- the pain tore across her abdomen and down her legs. She fell forward desperately grasping at the smooth wall and leaving only a smear of paint behind. He's gonna be pissed about that. She thought stupidly. She made it to the bedroom and saw him sprawled half on the bed and half off the bed. He was awake, but obviously very high. Fucking Heroine..... I'm going to die, because he got fucked up.

The tears had stung her again and she looked up determined not to think about it right now. She had work to do. She pushed the tears away which took a few swipes of her hand since quite a few of them had managed to sneak out of her eyes before she had been able to stop them. She brushed her hands against her jeans and went back to the prep table. She found her darker colors that she had originally intended to never use on this piece. Now, they were the only appropriate colors to use. This painting was going to be the final piece in her upcoming show. Her manager had insisted that it could wait until she was feeling better. She told her she was feeling fine and then hung up. Like she really gives a fuck how I feel. This painting would fit right in with her other pieces after today. Her critics once called her work grotesque..... that was before her successful show. She had sold almost every piece in the show and then words like grotesque and disturbing became Gothic and uniquely dark. It was all a joke to her. After she had that success she had stopped looking at reviews all together. She stood back from her painting for a moment to observe what she had just done to it. There were now spiky flames below her beautiful ribbon of cerulean blue and royal purple. She had blackened the bottom of the stream of color to suggest that it was smouldering and about to burst into flames at any given moment. The picture is becoming less of a lie now, but it's still not finished.

Get up! The scream tore through her mind as though she had just screamed it a moment ago instead of a month and a half ago. He had managed to raise his head to look at her. Somewhere is his clouded mind he saw the blood that had chased her all the way down the hall. "Is that paint?" he had slurred. How much did you take you useless piece of shit? She didn't bother saying it aloud. He wouldn't have really heard her anyway. "No, I need to get to the hospital, now!" She tired to convey urgency in her tone because screaming at him to get with the program wasn't going to cut it. This was a real emergency. "I can't drive, though," he replied staring at her blankly as though she was the one being unreasonable. She snapped at that point, "This is not a joke, you fucking loser! I'm bleeding and the baby is going to DIE!" Realization slipped in through the fog and his eyes widened slightly. The pain took that moment to cut through her body again and fresh blood flowed hot against her legs. Damn it.

She shook the thoughts from her mind again. She had to finish this so she could never think about it again. The painting was lacking something. She needed it to speak the truth, but she didn't want to see her baby disappear. She wanted to hold on to the picture and the hope.... even if there really was no hope left to hang on to. She had been taken to the hospital unconscious. She assumed the blood loss had made her pass out. And she had been in the hospital for weeks as they tried to stabilize her. They had hooked her up to dozens of machines and had done numerous test.... things she couldn't even pronounce and didn't know what purpose they served. All the nurses and doctors that had whisked through her room always had reassuring things to say to her. Nothing definite like "you and your baby are going to be fine." No, they couldn't say anything that could possible come back to bite them in the ass. All those machines and all those tests and her baby had still died. She had been forced to give birth to her dead fetus. They had kept calling it that. As though calling it something other than a baby made it less of a person. My baby. No longer. She had demanded to see and hold her baby before they took it off.... before they rid themselves of it, however they do that. They had all given each other worried glances as though she were insane for wanting to say goodbye to her baby forever. So small. It almost didn't look human, but it was and it was hers.

She was crying again. And this time she didn't try to stop the hot river flowing down her pale cheeks. She had a right to mourn her child especially now, faced with the truth staring back at her. She screamed at the painting -- an inhumane sound that only humans can make when they are in the most excruciating pain. The pain that drives people to do insane things. The pain left her and all she felt was cold. A cold that invaded every cell in her body. A cold that could not be rushed away with a hot shower or cranking the heat up. The cold seeped into a place that should never be cold. A place that threatened to never be warm again if she wasn't able to shake it away.

And then there was him. He had remained clean while she was in the hospital. Too frightened of what had happened the last time he had gotten fucked up. He blamed himself and she didn't contradict him. Not because she honestly believed it was his fault that the baby had been lost, but because she didn't want to deal with his self-absorbed pity party. He hadn't felt the lifeless being pulled from his body like it was nothing more than a parasite. Sure he had felt the loss of his child, but why on Earth did he feel the need to whine to her? There was no possible way he had felt the pain as acutely as she had. The anger bubbled up inside of her. She had come back home, dropped off by her sister. She had refused to let her sister come inside even though she had nearly begged. No, she had needed to be alone to wallow in her misery for a while longer all by herself. What she had gotten instead was more death.

When she pushed the door to the bedroom open she could smell something off. He was there sprawled half on the bed and half off the bed. His eyes were open and his lips had a disgusting purplish blue tint to them. He wasn't breathing. She hadn't screamed or cried. She had no tears left for him. She had used them all up on her beloved baby. You selfish bastard. Was all she could think when she saw him. She had left the apartment and gone back down to where her sister was still sitting, crying and waiting for her sister to do something crazy... what? like overdose on heroine because I'm a pathetic loser? Not my style, honey. Her sister had seemed shocked to see her standing on the sidewalk watching her cry. She had quickly regained control and gotten out of the car to see what had happened. Call the police. She needed to call the police.

She had called. The operator had obviously been slightly disturbed by her calm matter-of-fact tone as she explained that her boyfriend was dead in their apartment bedroom because he had overdosed on heroin. What, in God's name, had I ever seen in him? That had been two weeks ago.

That selfish turd left me to deal with this all by myself! The anger flowed freely through her veins and as she contemplated what to do next with her final project something exploded within her. She hurled the palate at the canvas. The abundance of red splattered across her baby, the ribbon of purple and blue and dripped down into the flames. "I hate you!" She screamed at no one and everything all at the same time. She took two steps back and collapsed.

Hours later her manager let herself into the small dark apartment and called out quietly to see if her client was painting or sleeping or if she was able to come in to look at the final piece. Her client had been erratic the past month with every right and she tried to walk on eggshells for her. She poked around for a few minutes, but finally determined that it was okay to go in the studio to check out the last painting of this collection. She gasped when she saw the final results of the artists efforts. It was gruesome and by far the most disturbing piece to come out of this particular artist. She loved it. It was raw and very emotional and it gave hope to the agent that this poor artist had a heart after all. She remained in the apartment for another hour waiting for the artist to return. When there was still no sign of her the agent left making a note in her planner to call and set up a date and time to move the last piece and get it hung in the gallery.

But the artist had left. She wasn't going to return and she didn't care what happened to that last peice.

Well, I hope this is good for my first blog story. I didn't really do much in the way of editing. I'm just leaving it how it is and I'm hoping for the best. Enjoy.

A Story to Tell

Well, I want to occupy my time with worthwhile activities. I wanted to have an official blog whether people read it or not so I made one. I wanted to fill my blog with my story ideas and perhaps start to actually write one of my stories in a blog. As you can tell I haven't done that. I haven't with my other blog either. My blogs are the same type of crap over and over again. Me complaining about something and turning it into a joke for my and other's amusement. This is not the type of writing I want to be known for, even if it is just in the blog world. I just can't bring myself to do it. You know, it's one of those self-loathing problems that everyone gets now and again. It's not that I haven't written stories down elsewhere. If you know me, then you've probably seen me toting around either a large orange journal or my laptop in its lime green case. (apparently I like my accessories to be really obnoxious colors. Hey, no one will try to steal something ugly, right?). So, I obviously have stories to tell and new ideas are constantly streaming into my silly little head and yet.....

Here I am babbling about nothing and the self-loathing cycle begins again. You see, I'm embarrassed by my stories on one level. The fear of being made fun of far outweighs the possibility that people might actually enjoy my work. Sure, I've had people read my stories.... well, one story I let out to readers, but it's always and only to people I know and people that, for the most part, like me. I don't have to worry about too harsh of criticism from those people.... most of the time. I even got really helpful advice from a-- well what do I call Jay? A friend, I suppose. Although, technically speaking, he is one of my cousin's best friends. I just leeched onto him via myspace. I value his opinion probably a little higher than most of my other readers because he isn't a close friend and he's a teacher. Even more than that, he's an English teacher. He should know what he's talking about, right? He gave my story back with all sorts of helpful notes and, at first, I was excited to get working on my story again and rearrange stuff and all those fun things that go into the editing process. And then slowly the hatred comes back. What a terrible story! Why did I even write it? It sounds too much like a TV sitcom or comic book for it to be taken seriously. I'll never be published so, why on earth should I turn it in?

Pretty pathetic, huh? Yep, that's me. That's why I haven't submited anything to a publisher and that's why I've never posted anything real in a blog. Apparently, my dream world is far more appealing than actually trying to reach for my dreams. BUT MY SHELL IS SO NICE AND COZY! Why would I ever want to leave the safety net of my mind? Grrr! Someday I'll do this.... someday..... someday..... and if I die tomorrow they can publish my journals, right? Nice and safe. Nothing to worry about. Let me just shift myself in my pathetic little shell so I can get more comfortable.

So, now I'm thinking of taking a story completely new to me and only writing it online. You see, if it goes online right away I won't have a chance to hate it, crumple it up, and throw it away. I mean, of course, I could delete it after I posted it and didn't like it, but still it would be out there for a little while. I hope.... I'll have to come up with something good..... hmmmm. Well, now that I've written this idea out I'm actually going to have to follow through with it -- unless I delete this right now..... hmm. I won't! It's going up right now and the next time I write it will have to be the start of a story. I've set my brain to it!

Tales from the Republic

This weekend I finally hung out with one of my "When It's Convenient for Me" friends. It was nice since I haven't see her in a while. Of course, even when i lived with her I didn't see much of her so I don't really think much of it. We were chatting about all sorts of random stuff and our old manager from Banana Republic came up in the conversation. Not that this is all that unusual since everyone who has ever worked with this woman probably has about a thousand stories to share as well. So, I decided to write all the stories I have about her down here in my blog. I had originally intended to make this blog at my other site, but i never did it. Now, I'm doing it here instead.

This manager had many aliases in the Banana Republic world (including, but not limited to G, Mom, Your Mother, Crazy, Circus Music, et cetera) so I don't think it will be a problem keeping her real identity safe. You know, just in case someone who knows her, reads this and somehow gets offended by it. Even though they are all true stories and she really can't dispute them or get offended. So, let's start with every one's favorite:

G Story #1: Hola!

Well, at the Republic we have a number of ethnicities coming in and out of the store and you would think that it would be common sense not to single anyone out based on their race. Of course, according to G she didn't.

An Indian family came into the store and were browsing in the men's section. While the father looked through the sale section the mother followed her toddler around as the little girl explored. G sees the little girl and immediately rushes over to terrify her. G bends over and screeches in the little girls face, "HOLA!" And of course the toddle just stares at her blankly and then looks around for her mother who appears to be quite angry at this point. The mother snatches up her child and glares at G, "Um, I doubt she will understand you seeing how we're not Mexican."

At this point G tries desperately to cover her ass by lamely replying, "Oh, well, I just came back from a trip from Mexico and I just think the language is beautiful, don't you?" You see, in G's mind she has done nothing offensive and she just goes along in her happy little delusion.

Everyone else is far more entertained by this story than I am, but I figured i would tell that one first since everyone else loves it so much. The next story was unfortunate for one person and entertaining as hell for the rest of us who got to hear the tale second-hand.

G Story #2: Tampons

This was a time when we had to take our deposit to the bank every morning. Two people had to go on each trip. One of them had to be a manager, but the other person could be anyone working in the store. Unfortunately this time it was Thomas's sad duty to head off with G.

G and Thomas took off to the bank and the rest of us went off for our fifteen minute break. Thomas comes back with a blank and somewhat pale look on his face. We ask him what happened this time (since G stories were pretty common at this point) and he tells us, "We pulled up to the window and G pulled a bag out of her purse that she thought was the deposit and it was a huge Ziploc bag filled with tampons. She didn't notice and she just kept yapping away at me and plopped it down on the deposit tray. They teller refused to pull the tray back in and I just kept staring at it. It was about two minutes before she realized what she had done. When she saw it she wasn't even embarrassed! She then proceeded to tell me why she had a bag full of tampons!" We all started laughing, of course, because it hadn't happened to us so it was funny. We bugged him until he told us what her insane excuse was for carrying a bag full of tampons around with her. Apparently, G is going through menopause and needs an arsenal of all different sized tampons, just in case.

Poor, Thomas! He told us later he was contemplating jumping out of the car and running down the street because she felt the need to talk about her irregular period all the way back to the store. My next story will be the last one for the day. It was one of the times I could have gotten in trouble for running my mouth off again.

G Story #3: Circus Music

On this fine day G was acting extra crazy and the other manager named Mark was getting frustrated. He approached me and asks, "I wonder what the hell is going on in her head most of the time?" And I, who should learn to keep my mouth shut, replies, "I theorize circus music." I was just being the smart ass that I normally am, but Mark seemed to think this was the funniest thing he had ever heard. After laughing for a good fifteen minutes Mark starts humming circus music and cracks himself up. This goes on all day. And if it would have ended there it probably would have been okay.

But, no. Mark keeps humming circus music every time G starts acting even slightly crazy and continues to crack up about it every time he does it. Now, I seem to think that somehow G is going to over hear this and ask him why he keeps humming that. And then one day it happened. She's acting crazy again and the moment Mark thinks she's out of ear shot he starts humming the circus music again. She walks by again and she hears him humming, but instead of her asking him why he's doing it G announces, "Hey! That sounds like Circus Music!" and then starts singing it out herself. Mark nearly pissed his pants and I turned bright red half with wanting to explode with laughter and half out of embarrassment for starting it.

So, I think that's enough G time for the day. I have plenty of others and can probably obtain more if I were to call up some friends who still work there, but for now that's all you get. I'm sure i will be inspired to write more soon.

Enjoy your day.

A Problem Not My Own

Current Book Image Stuck In My Head: "...She felt the cold in her skin and bones. The chill went through her heart and into the very core of her being. A place that should never be cold and she feared would never be warm again. This frost inside of her could not be warmed by a hot shower or even the sun..."

Current Tune Stuck In My Head: The Hy-Vee jingle: Where there's a helpful smile in every aisle. (I have no idea why since I haven't seen or heard the commercial for Hy-Vee in quite a while.)

So neither of those things have anything to do with this particular entry, but both things are stuck in my head and I thought I would share the misery with anyone who opts to read this blog. Well, that is, if you are prone to getting images or jingles stuck in your head. I'm sure most people are more likely to get that jingle stuck in their head than the image, but that image has been pestering me for a month or so now.

No, this blog actually has a more important job (for me). I have an issue to work out and the issue isn't even my own. It's my friend's. Now, why am I trying to figure out a problem that's not even mine? Because she is my friend and for some odd reason cares about my opinion on the matter. So, this blog is my way to work out her problem on "paper" before I go on a rant towards her. This will be my therapeutic tool for the day and anyone who reads this needs to know that I'm not actually asking for advice from the general public so much as helping myself through this problem.

So, first (for any reader who care), a short history lesson: My friend, for as long as I've known her, has had three best friends. I, of course, am one of them. There is another utterly fantastic friend and then there is the "when it's convenient for me" friend. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure we all have a few friends like this. You know the one, "Hey we should hang out this weekend. I'll call you." and then they don't call you. I have a couple of those friends and I've accepted them for the way they are at this point. I don't expect much out of them and I don't get upset when they don't call me back. I shrug it off, no big deal. But my friend expects things from her Convenience Friend because she is supposed to be a Best Friend and do all those best friend things like being in your wedding and being a God parent to your children and coming over for holidays. But what happens when the Best friend tells you she doesn't agree with who you are marrying and refuses to be in your wedding and then isn't even there for you when the engagement falls apart or she's not there when your body rebels against you making it so you may never have children or she doesn't have time to come over for the holidays anymore because she has her new family that is now more important than you? You kick her ass to the curb, right? You don't need that kind of shitty friendship! You have other friends that are there for you! People who love you, people who care..... right? Nope.

My friend crumbled apart instead. Her Convenience Friend got married and disappeared from her life and it destroyed her. Sure, getting married is stressful and you don't want to be thinking about your friend's problems when you have so many of your own, but to break the friendship off entirely.... after all the wedding stress is already over..... what is your excuse now? This person complete shut my friend out and wanted to have nothing to do with her suddenly after many years of friendship. Over what? No one seemed to know.

So, weeks go by.... months go by..... damn near a year went by with nothing from her "friend". She tried to let it go, tried to forget about her.... even tried to pretend she was dead. That only works until someone comes up to you and says, "Hey, you'll never believe who I ran into today!" People don't say that when someone has died. So it's just like a canker sore inside your mouth. You can try to pretend its not there and try to go on with your life and then you'll be happily chatting with someone and CHOMP you bite down on it and it starts to bleed all over again.

So, now you're up to current events. It wasn't quite as short of a history as I made it out to be, but I guess you're still reading so you can't be too mad at me. One day out of no where my friend gets a phone call and its her false friend all sunshine and happiness and wanting to talk everything over. CHOMP! bleed... bleed. Sigh.

Automatically the stress rises and mistrust rears its big ugly head again. What the hell could she possibly want after a year of the silent treatment? You wanna talk? I want you to kiss my ass, you canker sore! But no, those are my opinions not my friends and somehow she's not as mean as me and she agreed to meet with her estranged friend.

So, while these two are having their heartfelt cry session I'm downstairs and I get to hear the whole mess unfold. I hear half-assed apologies and some crying. I hear lame excuses and more crying. I hear demanding questions about what the hell happened (which was the only redeeming factor of the whole night) and some more crying. Eventually I hear laughing and some tossed in memories.... ah the good old days!

At last! We come to my actual dilemma! My friend is confused and doesn't know what to think. The fact that she isn't all yippee-skippy happy that her friend is back in her life actually gives me hope that she isn't a complete dope about this whole incident. She's trying to work it out in her own head and she wants my opinion so I have to work it out in my own head. Is the long lost friend to be trusted or is she only trying to ease her own mind about breaking the friendship up? Is she actually going to go back to the way she was before she went through her "crazy time" (their words not mind. i still think she's going through crazy time and I don't think she has ever NOT been in crazy time) or is she going to spaz out in another month and cut everyone off again? Basically is she just going to shred my friends heart again? Because, honestly, if she does it again, I may have to find out where she lives and go punch her in the face myself.

I'm the one that has to deal with the fall out (along with her other GOOD friend) not "crazy time" girl. Crazy Time doesn't know what my friend had to go through when she just took off into La-La Land. My friend started questioning all her friendships and if she was really that bad of a friend that someone would just stop talking to her for no reason. She got in irrational fights with other people just because of what her crap ass friend put her through. Maybe you are thinking I am a harsh person at this point and you are shocked I have any friends at all, but that's not true. I went through a lot of emotions the night I had to listen to the cry fest upstairs. I was happy for them and I was angry. I felt a mild stab of jealousy at one point and eventually slipped into indifference about the whole thing. "Whispered words of wisdom, LET IT BE" right?

Things will happen the way they happen and nothing I say or do is going to change that fact so why stress out..... that has always been my basic motto. If they're friends again, they're friends again. If nothing comes of it, nothing comes of it. But still.....

The more I think about it the more I get angry about it. I don't hold grudges for myself, but I hold them for my friends. How odd is that? I always spout off words of wisdom to my friends, "Oh, I would have said...." or "I would have done..." but when it comes down to it I've been treated like crap by a lot of people too and I seem to always just let it slide by. "Hey, remember me? I made your life a living hell for a whole year when you lived with me! I just wanted to say I went through a whole bunch of crap at that time and I'm sorry for that. Wanna be friends again?" "Sure. Why not." Hey, she said she was sorry! Good enough, right? Why do I hold so much resentment towards people who treat my friends like crap, but the people who treat me like crap I let them off easy? Because I'm crazy. Like every other girl. So, maybe this is just another incident of me over-reacting about someone else's problem and I should just let it go.... like I would if it were my own problem.....

I can just accept things for the way they turned out and go down the street whistling the Hy-Vee jingle. "Shop Hy-Vee! Where there's a helpful smile in every aisle!" And you thought I was going to let you forget that tune! Hell, it's taken my three days to finally get through this blog and the damn jingle is still stuck in my head. Why should I let you off so easy?