This my first try at a new weekly exercise toy I’m going to try to keep going. It’s called Free Write Friday, from Kellie Elmore over at Magic in the Backyard. http://kellieelmore.com/free-write-friday She gives the image, and we do a stream of consciousness thing about it or how it makes us feel. Of course, my stream of consciousness is more like a river of unconsciousness, but n’mind that. ;p
So, Kellie, this…thing…is for you. All 6 pages worth. And I might just have to do two. The pic is still sitting there, pushing on my poem nerve. *laughs*
Standing in the middle of the wide sunlit space that was her new studio, restless motion of feet, she looked around. the perfect light streamed through the perfect windows, carefully tinted and set to sense the light change and change their tints to match. The perfect work space. All the best ergonomic seats and desks and tables, the equipment any other artist would be willing to kill…well, at least maim seriously…to own. In the far corner, the perfect tiny little loft. With the perfectly arranged shiny objects on the shelves, and the sheets turned down on the neutral colored futon as crisp as any hotel bed. The little kitchen. Brand new espresso machine, the recessed ceiling lights in the floor of the loft sliding liquidly across its matte steel finish. The little washroom. Surfaces gleaming, green glass sink like a deep bowl the color ofantique glass soda bottles. And everywhere, the perfect floor. Warm wood that glowed in the perfect light like amber, polished to such a shine that when she walked across, she had to remember not to look down. Down, under her feet, where the shining lacquer sent her dull, warped pictures of herself, looking like just one more mosquito trapped in the resin of time. This time, though, she purposely lowered her gaze to the floor, seeking something in the reflection. Something to tell her, show her, why she felt so dead inside.
In the reflection, something seemed to pool around her restless feet, some…things. They rustled and slid and she reflexively looked to her actual stocking clad feet, expecting to see…something. Or things. But there was nothing but bare amber floor…and the trapped face of her reflection, so far below. Drowning in a sea of time.
A soft sound broke the silence…as ofa small object hitting the floor. Startled, she turned her eyes to where her stockinged feet shuffled. Something was there. Reaching down, she picked it up. A puzzle piece? A bit of blue, bluer than the sky could dream of. A hint of orange on one edge that practically dripped with organic energy. Where? As she studied the piece, another soft sound came. She looked down. Yes. Another puzzle piece. And as she watched, and wondered, more and more and yet more, until there was a growing pile beneath her feet, slipping and sliding, colors shifting chaotically in impossible to follow patterns. Her patterns. Her colors, her vision. She could feel it, now…feel her creativity, her muse, bleeding from her in ever increasing amounts. Dropping from her body in a steady stream now, the pile was almost to her ankles. Feeling suddenly hollow, and strangely dizzy, she folded herself into her favorite sitting position, puzzle pieces sliding away and toward her.
Her hand hurt. She looked at it, and was surprised to see it clenched so tightly, so intensely, that her knuckles almost glowed white with effort. Carefully, she reached out and peeled her fingers away from their curl, and nodded, looking at the blue and orange smear that was all that remained of the first piece. As she watched, that faded as well, but she could feel it, somehow. Feel it slide through her bones, her veins running wet with brilliant color! Quickly, she gathered an armload of pieces into her lap, laughing like a child as they seemed to almost scamper into her grasp. Shuffling through them, pieces rustling and sliding, she lifted a double cupped handful, sniffing their dry pulpy papery smell before letting them pour back into the pile like colorful water in a fountain. Again and again she reached,inhaled, poured…and every time, the pile seemed less. Even the pile on the floor seemed to gradually shrink, bright flashes of color marring the perfect floor for a moment before fading before her eyes…and behind them.
One particularly active piece danced and scrawled out a long trail of color that twinkled neon bright words. Quickly, she read them to herself, before they too disappeared. Laughing again. Sitting on the perfect floor, in the perfect workspace, in the perfect studio, laughing like a loon. The final handful of pieces in her hands, she stood, and twirled around in a careless dance. One, two, three times she whirled, her old colorful gypsy skirt spinning beautifully. Looking down, she watched the other dance as well, and laugh. No longer trapped, she danced with all the freedom in her, with all the glory that was muse and inspiration and so much more. Nuzzling her face against the slowly thinning pile in her cupped hands, she smiled, then laughed…and threw up her hands, bright colors falling down around her, fading before they hit the floor.
She only stopped when the spinning inside her had fallen to a calm wonder, and folded herself gracefully back down to the floor. Skirt pooled around her in a semi-conscious tribute, she sat, and thought. And finally, a sly smile trickled to her lips…
He dismissed the driver as if talking to a dog, and the man, used to his well paying job, simply nodded and drove away. Grumbling to himself, he started the walk up the perfectly landscaped meandering pathway that led to the studio. If she’d just use her phone, occasionally, he wouldn’t have to make these visits. Here, at least, he knew where she should be.
Approaching the studio, he cocked his head, listening to an unusual sound coming from the side of the studio. Moving closer, he recognized it as the hiss-roar of a blow torch, and automatically shielded his eyes. Peering at the suited welder from under the shelter of his arm, he cleared his throat…and immediately recognized the action as useless. Wanting to get the welders attention, he looked at the ground beneath his feet for a rock or twig to throw, but the lawn, perfectly landscaped as it was, seemed to mock him with its perfect empty green. Throwing up his hands in defeat, he turned to the studio. At least it’d be cool in there.
He smiled smugly as he remembered the first time he had shown her the studio. She had been overwhelmed, tried to refuse it, but he had insisted. She was one of their highest selling artists, and she deserved a space worthy of her talents. Not some 7 floor walk-up in the city, where her neighbors were likely hookers or thieves, or worse. He had even moved her things out of the apartment…at least, the things that were worth keeping. That had been two weeks ago. He was anxious to see the beautiful new art his artist had surely created in that time.
He slipped into the cool of the warehouse sized space, looked out across the sea of perfect…amber…and blue? And green? And…what was that color? Did that even exist? Dazed, he drifted across the paint spattered/coated/smeared floorboards, headed for one of the chairs in the workspace. But…where were they? All that sat at the work table was an old battered bar stool, its pleather and foam seat long ago ripped off, and the wood spattered with constellations of paint. Confused, he looked around for the chairs, finally finding them shoved unceremoniously in a corner.
Dragging one out, he sat down heavily, running his fingers through his perfectly styled hair as he tried to think. What could have happened? Why… Then he sat up straight, a look of comprehension on his face. The welder! It must’ve been the welder! Maybe he was an old boyfriend, come to ask for money…and maybe he’d forced her to let him move in! Or worse…his face was grim as he thought, and he moved the comfortable chair on its well-oiled rollers, over to the wall of perfectly shaded windows,where he had the best view of the welder, outside.
Watching, warily, wanting to see the face of his enemy. Finally, the roar hiss of the torch faded to a hiss, then to silence, and the welder put one gloved hand to “his” mask, pulling it up and over…long red curls spilling out, perfect cream-and-freckles face filthy with oil and paint and soot…and the happiest grin he’d ever seen, on her or any other soul.