EIGHT

I had been staring far too long.If i didn't say something soon, i would have succesfully sealed myself in the 'freak' category. Hastily, i spit out the words 'beautiful day.'

My voice was raspy from not having spoken to anyone for over 12 hours. It sounded like a croak, hurtling across the table into her lap.She looked surprised.

Then a shy smile. 'Yes, isn't it?'

Then, 'What are you drawing?'

'Oh... er... stuff, i mean ideas, i mean...', i gave up , turning my sketch book round so she could see.Black pencil drawings, scratching such deep lines into the paper it almost tore through the thin page. She looked confused.

'Oh...' she said.
I snatched my sketch book back from her fingers, feeling a wave of anger wash over me.
'I'm sure it's going to be wonderful.  I mean, you're in the midst of the whole process of.. creation, right?' she said.
'Yes,' I said staring down at my book, peeling the dry skin from the side of my thumb until i could feel it ripping into my flesh.

SEVEN

It was a glorious day. One of those days where the sun rays seem to kiss all colours of this urban landscape and give it a lift.
I was once again sitting huddled up in the corner of my favourite coffee shop over my sketch book. I had found inspiration last night. An aesthetic epiphany of sorts that crawled out from under the tarpaulin lining my makeshift studio, perching itself on my window sill, staring. I woke up after 3 hours sleep this morning, a nervous energy making me walk with a quicker step.

I had new ideas of tangled limbs and dirt smeared canvases. A collage of grit and wet tongue. i was almost leering at my skechbook as i etched out these thoughts furiously with a blunt pencil, stopping absent mindedly to sip on my coffee that was fast getting cold.

'Excuse me' she said.

I looked up with a frown. She had curls that framed her heart shaped face. Flushed cheeks like they'd been scrubbed clean after a morning run. Healthy, fresh, the sort of face that made you sick with envy for all the things it represented. The sort of face that made you want to stub out your cigarette.

'I'm really sorry to bother you. They've run out of tables. Would you mind if we shared?' she said, smiling apologetically.
'Uhhm... Sure... sure, go ahead.' I stumbled, wondering if I reeked and wishing i had bothered putting on deodorant this morning.
She smiled and sat down in front of me.

Ordinarily, i would be annoyed that someone would dare interrupt me in my moment of grand creation. The birth of what was sure to be my big breakthrough. But this girl here was distracting to say the least. She made me want to jump out of my skin, wished i'd shaved, brushed my teeth, worn clean clothes.

She looked up and caught me staring at her. I was unsure then what expression i was wearing. Probably a mixture of disgust (as i reflected on my ghastly physical state) and wonder, jaw open, pencil poised in mid air.

She gave me an uncertain smile, looked away, eyes flickering, discomfort beginning to form a shadow behind her glow.

SIX

It was 7pm in the evening and the night bowed and salaamed my assidous self, booting out the sun and its suffocating heat which has been buggering up my work all day. The stars, appearing casually onto a scene of disheveled artistry and dreadful smelling and possibly life-threatening toxicants, seemed for a moment like they wanted to pop right back from whence they appeared. I continued my spatulaed bouts with the canvas, ignoring the skulking stars and the debilitating humidity as best as I could.

That lady down by that Fitzroy street gallery had shown particular interest in my work. At least I did not get asked questions like 'Are you a contemporary artist?' or 'What movement did you join?'. She, thankfully, did not even utter the ubiquitous, ' Loovveee your work!' or its close buddy, 'Iiinteresting'.

It was a look in her eyes that had made me stop. I saw tremors in their depths. I saw the eyes of a child afraid but curious. She looked a little out of sorts. I knew immediately that she had caught the glistening sharp edge of a realisation that had cut her open. And the wound will not stop bleeding. It should have already begun its slow imperceptible gnawing at her very soul. Her acuity will be her undoing.

I know what I have to do!

FIVE

On March the 8th 1976, a male-child was born into the unhappy household of one Pewter Dempsey, a women of little means, wild passion and ripe popping loins. Unexpected, unwanted and unappreciated the child grew untended and unfettered, leading a solitary shunned life, dodging as best as he could the harsh handouts of crippling poverty and a dipsomanical stepdad. There was no celebration to usher him into this uncaring world as there would be none to greet him at every turn of his stunted life. Little John Dempsey had death as an intimate companion, dodging in and out of its grip for many years before finally capitulating 25 years today in the year of 1980.

FOUR

She switched off all the lights in the gallery, took one last clean sweep of the space in its shadows, and locked the doors behind her. First to enter, first to leave. Always alone. That seemed to be the story of Penelope's life.She felt the cold wind sting her weathered skin as she wrapped her scarf tightly around her thick neck and walked briskly along the sidewalk to her car.She thought about the man that had walked into her gallery today.Two day old stubble, a slight stammer, eyes that darted across all corners of the room like butterflies trapped in an empty glass box. The first words that came to her mind as she watched him walk towards her desk in the corner was: 'not again'. Penelope was weary down to her hardened thick bones of having to attempt a polite smile at all the 'artists' that walked through her gallery doors.They always came in different guises, shapes, nationalities - but they always had one thing in common: the belief that they were the only true 'creators' of society - that the only reason they were 'struggling' artists were because the world were misguided cretins, too caught up in their conveyor belt lifestyles to recognise the true and pure gifts of an artist.  Ironic that Penelope's one true love-Art, had led her to develop a deep seated contempt for the very people that made her life liveable.

The man today had mumbled something about his portfolio as he presented a black folder to her. She had tried to take it from him, but he maintained a strong grip on it with whitened knuckles, a look of fear shooting fleetingly across his face. Penelope sighed. At closer inspection, it was clear that he was not of the 'the world owes me a living ' variety. This one was of the 'fallen artist' variety - the kind who had lost all confidence,  dirty finger nails, uncertain gaze, and an air of quiet desperation laced paradoxically with resignation.
He eventually let go of his folder allowing Penelope to flip through his work cautiously and with an already determined look of dismissal.


Then something strange happened.


What she saw in his work lay in such stark contrast to all her pre concieved notions of another desperate failing artist producing ghastly work that Penelope found it impossible to look up at him and maintain her scowl.
The nervous man before her looked all ready to pounce on his folder of work to retrieve it from her, his eyes large and imploring.

'Hang on' Penelope remembered saying. 'Hang on....'

THREE

I dream about wholeness. You know. Of unity and innocence. Of humanity and its origins.

And in my dreams  my scars, disappear. My fragmentary past evaporates and I am whole again. I am fused with a dream of humanity. A pale light of promises linger deliberating over my new form, carrying me away to twinkling bodies of  far off stars. And in their midst I sleep soundly, only to awake to another disjointed day.

My search for succour inevitably leads me to  the 'glass nipple'. The purveyour of dreams and possiblities. I suck helplessly on it hoping for a panacea fit for a shattered soul. It streams away reality into hyperreality where antagonisms and polar dichotomies dissolve. Where peaceful co-existence is possible and humanity can reach back to its Garden of Eden.  Where the real and hypereal implode,  floating freely over all antagonisms. TV and life become one watching over me and humanity.

"Satellites picked up a massive explosion on a North Korean nucleur test site today," hummed my supersized, knock-you-down good time TV screen. I smiled as I prepared for another dose while I compared atomic explosions with Kathie Holmes lovely sticky outy ears.

TWO

My radio is picking up secrets. It whispers to me with an all knowing voice when I am not looking. It tells me things that I care not an iota for.

"Your neighbour, the skinny pale chap next door, gets off, peering secretly at you working on your computer," it said one evening.

I tweaked the knobs on it violently. Shook it some. Made faces at it. And considered either chucking it into the nearest bin or washing it with some soap and water.

"What did I want to know that for," I shouted at it as I changed the channel on it again.

One thing it does not volunteer is a response, which I guess is nice of it. And it can go on for days without a single whisper. Every now and then it comes out with an absolute horror.

"Today the world moved a step closer to nucleur holocaust!".

ONE

A cold pulse makes its inexorable way into my gut, resonating with my trembling hands, giving way to a mexican wave of nausea. My senses shut down one at a time at a breakneck speed, grouping, driving, and preparing. Something within me is marching my blood away from my sweaty hands and drenched legs, making me stumble like a ragged doll. A rebellion is in progress. The insurgents effin off for another ill-timed confrontation. I am playing serious hand to hand comabt with my bodily reflexes. Somewhere, something, somehow has taken over my body. I hate it when this happens.

A large woman with a twisted face ( an attempt at a smile I figured later) reaches out for my portfolio. Her calloused hands handles the large folder awkwardly as she pulls it towards her. My hands do not let go and there is an awkward moment. She glares at me and I make a grab for my disfunctional limb only to loose balance and hit the table with a bang. She takes the opportunity to tug and release the black leather case away from me.

I relax a little as she unzips my paintings away from their wraps. I can see her critical eye seeing only my incompetence and sloppy workmanship. I want to grab for the folder and make a run for it. I want her to stop. I want to slap the smugness off her face. How dare she?

She stops finally and I am free to go. She says nothing but I can see her disapproving gaze. I have wasted her time. She wants nothing more to do with me and wishes me gone. I concur and get up to leave.

"Wait," she utters, surprised.

"I like your work."