LJ Idol: Current Events
Passion
A/N: I had a difficult time with this prompt. I don't read or buy newspapers or even have cable to watch the news. The inspiring link is here: http://www.agora-gallery.com/competition/default.aspx I'm considering it as current events. Rather broad topic.
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“Current events,” he says, tossing a newspaper at me.
I grumble and frown at the tiny paper in front of me. “This is your version of current events? It’s the local Moneysaver, there’s nothing in here but cancer screenings for women over forty, puppies, and oh look, a new place that sells garage door openers.”
“You mean there’s not one thing in there that’s current to you?”
“We live in an apartment, Gary. I won’t be forty for another fifteen or…” I try to count in my head, “…well quite a few years. We’re not allowed dogs and we don’t have a garage so we don’t need a garage door opener.”
“Then buy the Times or something better than the free stuff that comes in the mail.”
“Why? Why should I bother? If it’s not sad and depressing, it’s enraging. I don’t want to deal with it.”
Gary drops a plate heavily into the sink. “Then look through that paper. Find something that interests you.
”Why?”
“Because I miss your passion, dammit. You used to care about things. You used to get out and do things and when you do something there’s no life in it.”
“Name one thing I don’t do anymore.”
“You don’t sing.”
“I’m a terrible singer.”
“You don’t sing along to the radio in the car, you don’t belt out the words to your favorite musicals, and you don’t even sing in the shower when you think no one’s listening.”
“Well maybe I figured out that someone was listening.”
“You don’t draw.”
“That’s not fair,” I say.
“Is too,” Gary says. “Alls fair in love and war.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“You tell me.”
I lick my lips uncertainly. My mouth is dry and my hands clutch the edges of the newspaper. “I don’t want to.”
“What don’t you want?”
“I don’t want to read the stupid newspaper. I don’t want to read about another death. I don’t want to read obits of fellow queers who committed suicide. I don’t want to read about people being raped or murdered. I don’t want to read about the numerous ways the government is screwing us. I don’t want to be on the left side or the right side or the inbetween side. I don’t want to be on any stupid side. I don’t want to deal with it, Gary. You’re my best friend, why can’t you understand that?”
“I gave you the Moneysaver, not the Times. There’s no obits, no comics, but there are some lifestyle pieces if you look hard enough. Look. Find your passion again. I have to go to work.”
Gary stuffs half a bagel into his mouth, pulls out a packet of cream cheese and squeezes it onto of the already partially eaten bagel. I fiddle with my fork and place it down, shoving my eggs to the side. I pick up the paper and sure enough it’s cancer screenings, puppies, and garage doors. But there’s a page that’s slightly dog-eared. I turn to it.
It’s a full-page black and white ad with just a hint of blue. The Chelsea International Fine Art Competition is in big block letters.
Find your passion.
I look towards my half-finished artworks lining the wall and the blank cotton paper that’s been attached to my easel for the past three weeks. My sketchbook peeks out from underneath the couch cushion and there’s a couple broken pencils next to my purse.
Sure, it’s not social justice. It’s not really changing the world. But it’s a way to be a part of it, isn’t it?
I sharpen my pencils, clean my erasers, melt Crayola crayons with a hair dryer, burn edges and holes into rag paper with a torch lighter, splatter paint, and transfer bondage photos to with Gesso. I create dresses held up with balloons, carousels being crushed by giant snakes, and ballet dancers dancing on piles of skulls. It’s messy. My face becomes blackened with graphite and charcoal. My hands become multi-colored with acrylic paint and ink. I’m steadfastly staying away from the horrors of real life while barely touching them in my fantasy worlds. And during this I sing off-key and off-tune.
And when Gary comes home, he gives me a huge hug and tells me about the sweetest bear he met today and that the bear knows a gorgeous single femme who loves artists.
I suppose living is better than reading about misery. It might catch up to us one day, but right now, we’re going down to the city.
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written for therealljidol
A/N: I had a difficult time with this prompt. I don't read or buy newspapers or even have cable to watch the news. The inspiring link is here: http://www.agora-gallery.com/competition/default.aspx I'm considering it as current events. Rather broad topic.
-
“Current events,” he says, tossing a newspaper at me.
I grumble and frown at the tiny paper in front of me. “This is your version of current events? It’s the local Moneysaver, there’s nothing in here but cancer screenings for women over forty, puppies, and oh look, a new place that sells garage door openers.”
“You mean there’s not one thing in there that’s current to you?”
“We live in an apartment, Gary. I won’t be forty for another fifteen or…” I try to count in my head, “…well quite a few years. We’re not allowed dogs and we don’t have a garage so we don’t need a garage door opener.”
“Then buy the Times or something better than the free stuff that comes in the mail.”
“Why? Why should I bother? If it’s not sad and depressing, it’s enraging. I don’t want to deal with it.”
Gary drops a plate heavily into the sink. “Then look through that paper. Find something that interests you.
”Why?”
“Because I miss your passion, dammit. You used to care about things. You used to get out and do things and when you do something there’s no life in it.”
“Name one thing I don’t do anymore.”
“You don’t sing.”
“I’m a terrible singer.”
“You don’t sing along to the radio in the car, you don’t belt out the words to your favorite musicals, and you don’t even sing in the shower when you think no one’s listening.”
“Well maybe I figured out that someone was listening.”
“You don’t draw.”
“That’s not fair,” I say.
“Is too,” Gary says. “Alls fair in love and war.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“You tell me.”
I lick my lips uncertainly. My mouth is dry and my hands clutch the edges of the newspaper. “I don’t want to.”
“What don’t you want?”
“I don’t want to read the stupid newspaper. I don’t want to read about another death. I don’t want to read obits of fellow queers who committed suicide. I don’t want to read about people being raped or murdered. I don’t want to read about the numerous ways the government is screwing us. I don’t want to be on the left side or the right side or the inbetween side. I don’t want to be on any stupid side. I don’t want to deal with it, Gary. You’re my best friend, why can’t you understand that?”
“I gave you the Moneysaver, not the Times. There’s no obits, no comics, but there are some lifestyle pieces if you look hard enough. Look. Find your passion again. I have to go to work.”
Gary stuffs half a bagel into his mouth, pulls out a packet of cream cheese and squeezes it onto of the already partially eaten bagel. I fiddle with my fork and place it down, shoving my eggs to the side. I pick up the paper and sure enough it’s cancer screenings, puppies, and garage doors. But there’s a page that’s slightly dog-eared. I turn to it.
It’s a full-page black and white ad with just a hint of blue. The Chelsea International Fine Art Competition is in big block letters.
Find your passion.
I look towards my half-finished artworks lining the wall and the blank cotton paper that’s been attached to my easel for the past three weeks. My sketchbook peeks out from underneath the couch cushion and there’s a couple broken pencils next to my purse.
Sure, it’s not social justice. It’s not really changing the world. But it’s a way to be a part of it, isn’t it?
I sharpen my pencils, clean my erasers, melt Crayola crayons with a hair dryer, burn edges and holes into rag paper with a torch lighter, splatter paint, and transfer bondage photos to with Gesso. I create dresses held up with balloons, carousels being crushed by giant snakes, and ballet dancers dancing on piles of skulls. It’s messy. My face becomes blackened with graphite and charcoal. My hands become multi-colored with acrylic paint and ink. I’m steadfastly staying away from the horrors of real life while barely touching them in my fantasy worlds. And during this I sing off-key and off-tune.
And when Gary comes home, he gives me a huge hug and tells me about the sweetest bear he met today and that the bear knows a gorgeous single femme who loves artists.
I suppose living is better than reading about misery. It might catch up to us one day, but right now, we’re going down to the city.
-
written for therealljidol