here and now
There was a gasp, a sudden pause, and an inhalation of breath. Muddled disorientation and momentary confusion followed in a obscurity and I rubbed the heel of my palms in my eyes. What had awoken me? Something. It had not been a sound. The room was still save for the soft lulling clicks of the fan above and the one car that made up the flow of traffic outside my four windows, normal for 3:34 in the morning. I headlights of the passing by vehicle played with the shadows thrown about my wall, flirting with the darkness, the stark distinction of one another.
It came to me. It was a name, a thought, a rush of sensation that had touched me, taken me, pulled me out from under a daily, temporary spell and deposited me into awareness.
There. I did something I had never done before, not to find loopholes but you had never specified specifically weather it be consciously or subconsciously, ne?
Odd.
An arbitrary thought interceded within the ebb and flow of the shore, my streaming consciousness today. It was related to sleep, to hours not met, to the other life, the other side; I paused at 11:54 this morning to wonder if anyone has the same point of view as I., not in a political or ethical sense, nothing that controversial, but in the sense of actual sight. What colors and shapes and patterns of unity and form of line and structure do they see? Is my particular sense of perceiving the reality met somewhere else? Though, the thought disconcerts me a bit, I should like to visit an art school someday, sometime in the near future just to look. A magnet school or an institute, it matters not, they both are the same residence to and with the same genre of people in the same mindset.
I had something to say; I had thought of it earlier. Its kind of funny, kind of sad, for me at least, to think that one contemplates of topics to spout of into a distant Cyberia, as I’ve heard it referred to, to an invisible audience, though comprised of certain people who might tell you something about what you’ve said, or might not. They may not care, they may read your words in a blank stupor not really even attempting to contemplate their meaning. But like everything, every act, every situation, the words pick its audiences.
I’ve received a lot of comments, but one, today in particular, stood out from the rest to play over in my mind, some private joke between myself and I or something of that sort, not quite sure. Anyway, found it humorous. In my usual spot in the art room, I sat, perched at the edge of the elevated blue stools studying a painting when an outside voice intruded upon my thoughts.
“You must work hard.”
At that specific moment I was too amused to laugh, if such is possible. I just sort of looked up, startled and started blankly. I don’t remember what I said in response in the moments following.
There is something not understood not even by myself, I suppose. I’ve never worked, really. The only class I’ve ever put forth my best, my full time, talent, and effort in was Mr. Faries’ class of sophomore year. Why? He is the only one who demanded it of me. No one else did; either what I gave, half-assed, was good enough drivel spouted upon a canvas for them or they didn’t know any better. A revolting combination of the two, I guess I can surmise. This is not limited to art related topics; I procrastinated terribly my whole life, I still do, an old habit that remains to be changed. But this year, this is the first year I’ve worked with every fiber in my being to do what I’ve done, whatever that is. I still don’t know. The outcome is not apparent or as obvious to me- I don’t see it in my art, I don’t see it in my progress reports, or my report cards. Sure, sure, I maintain “allright” grades but I know that my standards have gone down. I don’t fret as I used to over a high C in math. I should. I could say, “Well that’s my only bad grade,” but by actually admitting that, in some sort of sick justification, that brings what I’ve worked for and what I’ve done, if anything really, down. So, my grades are all passing, I have a few paintings I like, and I’m skipping a year. Is this a math equation that is intended to add up to something? I can’t see that I’ve done enough, I don’t see a sum.
There are things that need to be done: papers that need completing, pictures and numerous projects, people to contact, appointments to be made, commissions to be filled, confirmation to be taken, and most of all personal standards to be met. But the real test remains in the future, the proceeding months. One is already lost, one will go soon, and one was never physically there. Thoughts such as these do not intrude often on the present, though I am aware of their being, pushed into the background of my mind and my dreams. Allowing them to skulk forward out of the grave darkness once in a while gives contrast to the picture. What good is contrast? Contrast is everything. You don’t notice it when its there, but in its absence, cities would fall. If you are not aware of the opposite existence, you will never know the full extent of the other, what ever it may be. Thoughts of leaving, they aren’t morbid; they can be said, aloud, with a level tone and conviction; they are truth, they are fact. If I can go through the next half a year, I’m thinking I’ll be set, for a while at least. Maybe.