Stroke of Beauty--Chapter 3

The rain was unexpected.

As it beats down upon me I watch the people scatter to escape its wrath. They run like animals, attempting to jump between the drops that are millions in number. It is an impossible, elegant tap dance they have not yet learned to master; where the only song playing is the one left to me by the girl.

My clothes become heavier than my heart. Soaked with the water others are afraid to touch. I fret not about being wet as it is something I actually can be called that’s not weird, odd, or crazy. The drenching water not only soaks me to core, but seems to paint a picture upon my canvas. Mocking me. The blue splotches, formed by the shower, are now dispersed almost arbitrarily upon the canvas. The illogical markings made by nature are still grander and more beautiful than anything I have painted in the last few years.

I show emotion. Tears mix with the rain water running down my face. No one bothers to ask how I’m feeling.

I just slept on the bench last night. My clothes were too heavy and my muscles too undeserving to walk home. My bag of supplies, many of which are dried and unusable due to many years of neglect, made for a good pillow. My brushes and primers and paints are perhaps the most loyal of my friends. They don’t ask for anything in return but are always around to hold up my head when I need it. I can not name a single person who would do the same.

Morning came, like always. Nothing seems to stop its retched head from leering down on me. I could sleep in a fire storm, the flames burning my life and my soul right out of me and morning would still come. It would come as if nothing had happened. For morning knows not the devastation of tragedy. The dawning of a new day is impeded by nothing but the ultimate end.

“You look cold,” I heard a small voice say. My eyes jut open, surprised saliva soaks into the side of my unkempt beard as my jaw loosens slightly in shock, and the air, still moist from the rain, fills my lungs in a gasp. The girl has returned.

“Do you want my jacket? I’ll give you my jacket if you want it.” The outstretched arm that held the jacket was at eye level with my waking body as I lay on the bench. After several seconds of silence the tiny girl shook the offering slightly, disturbing the air surrounding it. I sat up. The girl sat down.

“I’ve been watching you sleep. Why did you sleep out here? Are you one of those people mommy talks about? The ones who don’t have homes? The ones whose mothers didn’t love them?” I didn’t answer; mainly because I didn’t have an answer. I had a home. Despite its current state of disarray, my tiny cubicle in the corner of this direly unpleasant city was still my home. Oh, how I longed to be there now and away from this place, away from this unanswerable round of questioning from the girl. I wasn’t sure if my mother loved me or not. I suppose if she did, she wouldn’t have found so many ways to disappoint me, leave me feeling insufficient. I don’t blame her, she was just like everyone else, paid me no mind, gave me no positive regard; and why should she have? I’m just another of the 87 billion people that do not matter. Take the 907 people that died last week in a Chinese train accident for instance. I was sitting on my personal bench, not painting, I didn’t care. Over 200 died in an Andes plane crash the week before that. The man passing me now on his bike, the one listening to his personal radio, he didn’t care. When did the world become so personal that the death of thousands no longer matter unless the news of it disrupts our personal work out session? Personal maids, personal pizzas, personal trainers, personal space, personal time, personal calendar. Of course, if we happen to be one of the dead in the plane crash or the train accident or the terrorist attack we would expect to be mourned by the many, remembered for our kindness, thoughtfulness, empathy towards others. Personal death doesn’t seem like it will be added to this list anytime soon.

“That’s ok,” the girl said. “You don’t have to answer.”

She kept coming back. Day after day after day after paintless day. Her presence was, no doubt, only hurting the chances I had left of ever finding paintable beauty again. I despised her. She would sit and talk, ask questions I didn’t want to answer. I tried to ignore her pigtails and overalls, the straps of which I could use to strangle her. I thought instead of years past. The years when the painting drew ineffable crowds. The years when the company of the girl didn’t haunt my thoughts, life, and dreams. The pleasant thoughts of days gone by didn’t last for long, however, as, one day, she handed me a folded piece of paper.

“I drew this for you. I thought maybe you would like it.” I unfolded it, hating it more with each part revealed. It was a drawing of an icy lake. Snow was falling on the evergreen trees that surrounded the pond, frozen from the cold winter brought along with its other depressive qualities. The kids and parents and couples and dogs and cats that filled the solid pond had on their faces expressions of sheer joy. The reason for the happiness was unseen. The picture was missing exactly what I had been missing for four years.

“Do you like it? I thought maybe you would. Maybe, since you never seem to paint anything, you could paint this. Will you paint it? Do you like it?”

I didn’t. I hated it. The girl began whistling the song again after I didn’t respond to her question. Again, the song cut through me, striking nerves I didn’t know I had, ruffling invisible feathers. I took a deep breath.

“Do you like that song? My father used to sing it to me every night before he put me to bed. It’s my favorite. Do you like it? It’s called My child, my love. Do you like it?”

I didn’t. I hated it. I hated the way it made me feel, full of odium. “I can sing the words if you like. Would you like me to sing the words? I know them by heart.” I didn’t stop her. I should have, but I didn’t.

Stretching o’er the endless seas

Larger than the sycamore trees

Stronger than the mighty wind

Greater than the biggest sin

My love for you

The voice that burst forth from this tiniest of girls was heavenly, angelic. It was more awful than I imagined. Not the song or the voice, for they were common isolation, but the feeling they pushed and rammed and shoved into my soul when paired together. A feeling of beauty I had not known for ages.

My life without

My love, my child

Not a life I want to live

Not a life I want to live

My love for you

Is she mocking me? Intentionally rubbing in my face the ease with which she creates the beauty I have for so long struggled to achieve? Was that the outcome her gift of art was intended to have? What would possess a tiny girl, a tiny insignificant girl, to poke fun at the insecurities held by an old man painter? I detested this child. Abhorred the very fiber of her being. She set off inside of me flames of hatred that boiled blood and bubbled skin. My entire body was sweating the sweat ensued by a thousand volcanoes.

More peaceful than a morning dove

Tighter than a fitting glove

Truer than nonfiction prose

Sweater than a smelly rose

My love for you

My life for you

My child, my love

“Did you like it?”

I couldn’t have answered if I so chose. The storm of anger within continued. My teeth were clenched in a fury here so far unknown to man. I could taste the blood being forced from my gums by my clasped teeth. It was a blood that could have been flowing from my pours; the skin was scrunched so tight.

“Did you like it?”

It was becoming overwhelming, the rage. Not only did she feel the need to mock and ridicule me, but she just had to know what I thought about it. It was becoming overwhelming, the rage. So I let go. I let her know what I thought about it. My left hand left my side. It was overwhelming, the rage. My hand flew through the air, shaking with disbelief. It hit the girl’s cheek, creating a sound rivaling that of a popping balloon and my mouth opened, releasing a scream. The rage was overwhelming. No, a shriek, a cry, a liberating yell. Finally freeing the anger she had so intentionally build up inside of me. The breath from my shout tousled the monster’s hair. It got up, tears running like a nose and ran into the park, into the fog and into gray sky of another incoming storm. The relief was overwhelming.

End of Chapter Three