For some time, I’ve missed the kind of focus I used to have with respect to producing art. Its not that I dislike writing, which I’ve invested more time and energy in over recent years, its just that it doesn’t produce the same kind of satisfaction, scratch the same kind of itches in the same places that art always did for me. And I’m itching like a flea-infested fuck wearing a sweater straightjacket coverall.
And as for all my enduring focus on writing, has it really improved my writing as a result? I still screw up tenses. Fuck up spelling. I fear a lot of my writing fails to have adequate focus and structure. I can’t write fiction worth a damn. And my attempts at writing a book about my strange, seemingly paranormal experiences?
That’s all clearly gone to shit.
To make matters worse, I’ve failed even more at further developing my art, and I can’t seem to get over this hump. Or perhaps “climb this mountain” is more adequate. And this, this despite my inspiration lately: inspiration that, if I manage it the right way, might light a fire under my ass and get me pouring my soul through imagery again in new and different ways.
This inspiration has come from at least three sources.
One is Squeaks, a young girl I work with. She has a dark, bitter, judgmental part of her, but she conveys it in this giddy, childlike way that amuses me. Her voice frequently gets painfully high-pitched, however, at least to my hypersentive ears, hence the name I’ve given her.
She is yet another child of abusive, otherwise negligent parents that clearly should not have been parents, though thankfully she lives with her boyfriend — who I call Count on account of the legitimate, natural fangs that motherfucker has — who seems like a good kid that truly cares for her. Unfortunately his home life isn’t the greatest, either.
At the very least, they have each other, though, and I think they make a good team.
Whenever she works in back drive thru I catch her doodling on a sheet of paper or a napkin — though calling them doodles doesn’t seem to convey the degree of skill she has. I’ve also seen her sketchbook — but again, to call them mere sketches…
She draws these spectacular cartoons. She often starts with lines and shapes and then starts building on the details as they always teach in art courses. I should probably do more of that. They are high-grade cartoons, for sure, and the way she colors them, often but not always using the computer, makes them look professional as fuck as well.
It makes me happy that it brings so much joy to her despite the endless onslaught of pain in her life, too, and though she has no interest in pursuing it through college or a career, I hope she eventually changes her mind and decides to invest her undeniable talent in some way that brings satisfaction to her. And perhaps even brings joy and inspiration to others in the process.
After all, as I believe I’ve made clear by this point: her artistic talents have clearly brought joy and inspiration to me…
Though admittedly, also envy and jealousy. Which well come back to. But there are, as I said, still other sources of inspiration.
There is, for instance, this girl I know from high school; she was a grade or two behind me. I’ll call her Maria Cox. I knew her brother, Johnny Cox, who was in my class. I also knew her close friend, Gerty, who was an anxious girl with a rapid-fire mind with whom I got along pretty well. I never got to know Maria too well, however, and despite affectionately calling her “Little Cox” whenever I got the chance, I don’t think she was too amused by it. Nor do I feel subsequent interactions made her perspective on me any better. Still, I always liked her — though, at least consciously, not to the degree that I do presently.
I remember little of her in high school save for the school dances I attended. While each dance held its own particular flavor of drama, a rather consistent element was that Maria would always end up along the wall, in the darkness of the gym, crying. Typically, or at least I always assumed, some ass-hat of guy she had come with had ditched her or in some way broke her heart.
I always felt bad for her. I always felt the urge to comfort her.
Even so, I never got to know her too well. I saw her now and then after graduation, but for the most part, only in passing.
I bumped into her once in a nearby town and she asked to borrow fifty bucks; I lent it to her. This was back when I was far more naive than I am today and still tried to trust and believe in people. She promised to repay me, and it was some time before I saw her again.
When I did, I was hanging out in a booth in a fast food restaraunt, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and writing in my notebook, as I often did. She came in the door, walked right passed me without so much as a glance, and sat a few booths behind me with one or two other people. They said something to her I couldn’t quite hear, but her response?
That I overheard.
It was essentially that “his” parents were rich, that “he” didn’t need the money, both of which are untrue, and so on — essentially providing a list of excuses to the others as to why she need not pay me back. That I found more than a bit douche-like and it soured me towards her for some time.
I can be a bitter, grudge-holding douche.
The next time I saw her was a good time later, and it stands as the last time I saw her as of the time of this writing.
I found myself at a bar with some friends and found out that one of the guys I went to school with was the lead singer in a metal band. We talked for awhile on the porch and then I meandered back inside. That’s where I saw this sexy, darkly-dressed girl expertly, seductively slow-dancing with some guy. It took me a moment to realize it was Maria.
In retrospect, I recall her looking good. Really fucking good.
Shortly thereafter she approached me and asked if I wanted to buy her a drink; I confessed I had no money (which I believe was true) and left it at that. Ever since, I’ve regretted not taking her up on her offer.
At some point after I got on Facebook years upon years ago she came to be on my friends list. Though I can’t recall at what point she became insatiable to me, it must have been some time after that. I remember seeing Gerty at some point after joining the Book of Faces and she said with confidence she knew who I thought was hot, she knew who I wanted to fuck. I asked her who, and when she mentioned Maria, I flatly denied it.
Gerty’s response conveyed that she thought this impossible. Not unlikely, mind you, but downright bloody impossible. Every guy wanted to fuck Maria, she seemed to believe, and on top of that Gerty knew she was right up my alley — evidently before I was able to consciously acknowledge it myself.
Maybe I still held a grudge at some level over what I overheard her say that day in the restaurant and denied my intense attraction towards her to myself, burying it far from consciousness.
It did not remain there, however.
Chronicles of a Madman. 