All of these realizations had hit him before. It wasn’t new. It had been in his experience for some time. But still, focusing on it made it more real.
He would still go out, now and again. But the people, their conversations, annoyed him. What were they on about? These young people, with their aspirations. They saw a ladder they could climb. And they would attempt it. Only for moments later to wake up on the ground. Their grip, never sufficient. Their grasp of their phobias, misguided, misunderstood. Something always overcame them. Something always put them back on the ground.
The times were different. Could anyone legitimately climb the ladder still, he would think to himself. But they never could. He would always amuse himself with their fall. Their short descent from rise to earth. They would never know the dynamic of falling from king of the ladder, to slave of the underworld. They would always consider their three or four rung ascent as success. As something to brag about. Something to strengthen their king complex, to build up their resolve. But they never tested their limits. They always became complacent at the first scent of adulation. And they stayed there, as long as they would. Until the rungs melted to pasta, to rubber. And they would be forced into a decision. And they always chose the safe path. The descent. They always ended up back on earth, one way or another.
And he always found it amusing. Just once, he wanted to see one of them ascend beyond the affects of the world. The affects of their fears. And they never did. Just once to see one abandon the rules, reject the appearances. To see one leap up beyond the spongy rungs. And still they never did.
The artist was then thinking of himself. Not in some selfish or self-righteous way. Rather, he put a mirror to himself to see what he thought of his own affects. Could he climb any ladder? Would he be unsteady? Lack the strength to climb more than a few rungs? Did he have the will to test his own limits?
But were they even limits? Weren’t they really just the experiences and phenomena of the world around him? The world he existed in made the walls around him. Or did it? Did he build the walls himself? Why did he build the walls? Why did he limit himself?
In those moments of introspection, one thing started to become clearer to him. He may have created the walls, but he had become powerless against the urge. He never wanted to be the slave to himself, or to the world. But here he was. Shackles and all.
The next morning, when the artist awoke, he stared at the sketch pad. It stared back, challenging him. Asking him who was in control. He picked up the sketch pad and a pencil. Instead of a drawing, he wrote:
“You are not in control. This is not your fault.”
***
And so it was. What could he do?
He would run into people, here and there. A brief conversation. A subtle eavesdropping. Their endless, meaningless, uninteresting conversation. Their mundane and simplistic ideas. Their unexperienced, uneducated noise. It was always too much for him. He could never take it. And he could never engage.
He would hear such shit.
And so and so, blah blah blah college.
And so and so, blah blah blah politician.
And my wife.
And my husband.
Any my lifelong friend.
And hooey crap, nothingness, blah.
And reality television.
And money money money.
And wishes, wants, desires.
And apathy, and needs.
And lotteries.
And drivel, drivel, trash.
And life. And hardness. And suffering.
My poor suffering self. My poor suffering life.
And drinks. And shots.
And drugs. And sex.
And addiction. And loss of control.
It was all just such fucking noise. Such waste.
Young and old. Introverts, extroverts. Straights, and gays, and trans. All the same bullshit. The same mindlessness. The educated. The uneducated. The rich, the riche, the poor.
They were all the same.
Clone after clone.
Duplicate after duplicate.
Non-thinker after non-thinker.
A new generation of deep apathetics.
The future generations of fare-the-wells, of go-a-longers, of radicals within the boundaries, of protesters for the sake of having protesters. But the essence. The core. The soul. Always missing.
And that was the thing. His soul, his spirit, was dormant. Wanting desperately to be awakened. Carried endlessly by his shell, but constantly sleeping.
Anything. Any evidence of another’s soul or spirit would have breathed life into his own. But it never happened. Their self consumed self love. Their self consumed self absorption. They had become now consciousness of other, of others. Their love and focus had become so personally directed toward themselves, that there was nothing left for others.
And so it was. What was left? What remained?
Only himself. Now a relic. A museum piece. A souvenir of a recent time. A time not interesting to anyone. Not elevated beyond their personal involvement. He thought that there must be others like him. And maybe there were. But they had succumbed to their lives. They had retreated to their hermitages. Their escapes. Their hollows. Their own contentments.
Places he was never invited. People who would never claim him.
And so there was only the pretending public. Their proclaimed, but unfounded, innocence. Their willful ignorance. Their betrayal. Their coupling. Their defiance. Their ineptness. They were living some life. They were traveling some safe balance beam, wide, and netted. Their risk was so long gone and forgotten. Their fears were so overwhelming. Their lives, so limiting, but safe. These former painters, and writers. These former sculptors and songwriters. These former unique souls, now sold out for jeans and t-shirts. Now just everyman. Everywoman. Everyperson. Just regular fucking people. Their strollered kids. Their leashed dogs. Their fenced yards. Locked doors and processed dinners. Their short-sighted investments and influenced votes. Their young naivete. Their old, stick in the mud, attitudes. Their mid-life aspirations, governed by cowardice, fear, and incompetence. This was his world. A lone soul lost in a sea. An amphibian amongst land dwellers and sea life. His beauty evident for anyone willing to look, but on this colorblind island, he was the bright red no one could perceive.
He would arrive home after such days, and see the sketch pad and its message. His message to himself. But where to go from here?
If he wasn’t in control, who was? Was anyone? His mind took a moment to consider the epic size of the universe. Was there anything in that great and vast expanse that he could appeal to?
Some god, some ethereal existence, a spirit, an alien being. Nothing the thought of felt real or substantial enough. He wanted - needed - something that felt real. That felt reliable. That felt powerful.
He sensed a feeling, almost like an emotion, that felt both familiar and strange at the same time. It took a few seconds before he recognized what it was. He would feel the same in the moments, the seconds, before some grand artistic idea would form in his mind. And then there was the idea.
It was like a meta-experience. The idea that the source of his artistic ideas was something like his God. While there was usually some real experience that would usher in the ideas, there was also this channel from elsewhere that would inject him with perspective.
He let the idea simmer in his frontal cortex, to labor itself into his consciousness. The idea flowed like slime from his head, down his body. As it reached his legs, he felt his body lifting up, numb and separate from the world. His head felt like it was a helium balloon, pulling him up into the sky.
Then as quickly as he felt the elation, he was back on the ground, in his physical body.
And he knew what he had to do next.
He grabbed the sketch pad, quickly writing:
“Your god is within you”
***
And so it was. His life continued. On autopilot. Waiting for the rest of the machinery to devolve. He was not a repairman, and had little interest in it anyway.
Each night was an opportunity. The page on the sketch pad always staring at him. Always challenging him. Always mocking him. It was like an amalgam, a concentration of all those people. The ones he despised, he hated. Their put-on smiles. Their portending to be something. And so focused, their pretension, their character. Each one a stereotype, a cliched approximation.
He wanted to sketch them all. Not as they presented, but as they were. Their ugly, real problems. Their psychosis. Their heart murmurs. Their obsessions. Their faults. Their weaknesses. He wanted to strip away their shells and expose their fixed, inner selves. Their cloud formations that would swim across the sky unchanged.
He could always see it. It was one of his innate gifts. He could always see beyond their veneer. Their make-up faces, their false smiles, their summoned confidence, their perfumed exteriors. He could always inject himself into their lives and experience their pains. Their exultations. Their desires. Their fears.
These people. These everyday people. These anyone people. These everyone people.
Their chatter was like dogs barking. He could hear it, but it was not decipherable. And it’s loudness carried and carried. It’s loudness buried him, like blankets on a fire. Their hollow promises, like clouds thinning into nothing. And their trust and belief. The sad reality of their gullible sensibilities. Their indulgent sexiness, like the packing materials in a present. Pop. Pop. Pop. The bubble wrap has lost it’s entertainment. The flat remaining material, just thin plastic. And now nothing.
And his own failing. His own falling. His own ground floor existence. He was still human, but just barely. A flamethrower in his arsenal would have been useful. Rid the earth of their mundane renderings. Ashes of bone and flesh for those who had nothing to contribute. No progression. No confidence. Just sterile abilities, fit for the machine which preceded them.
***
And so it was.
That familiar feeling - he had been ignoring or suppressing it, he realized. Over time, he had become practiced at it, hardly giving it a thought when it happened. Mostly out of some sense of fear. Fear that he wasn’t good enough. Fear of facing the pains of the past. Fear of diving back into that life and those experiences.
But he didn’t need to be afraid. He wasn’t in control, anyway. It wasn’t his fault, anyway. There was something else feeding him these ideas. And so now, instead of ignoring or rejecting them, he would simply accept them. That didn’t mean he had to take action on them, but he needed to receive them. Like gifts from a ghostly dimension. Each one wrapped as pretty as the next, despite the beauty or ugliness found inside the present. But it was always something. It was never mundane.
Almost immediately, the ideas began coming in. His first instinct was to write them down, maybe on the sketch pad. He didn’t. Instead, he kept them in his head. He filed each one away, like a book in a library.
When he had free moments, his mind would wander the library, inspecting each idea. Considering what he might do with it. How it would make him feel to explore it. He would then pull one of these ideas out of the library and into a kind of virtual studio in his mind. He had started to just imagine the finished product, but it lacked an essential part of the process. His work needed to start, and evolve. It couldn’t just appear - already complete. He could appreciate the finished product, but he couldn’t feel the journey he went on to start, and evolve it. And those were the key moments. It only takes a few moments to appreciate a finished work. It takes hours, days, weeks, months to evolve a work.
The he did grab the sketch pad, methodically writing:
“Your internal God will enslave you"
***
And so it was.
He would regularly accept the incoming stream of ideas and file them away.
The artist would then later browse and find one that interested him. And begin to work on it.
As each work approached its finished state, he would begin to think of where it would go. In addition to his library, he had also created a virtual gallery in his mind. This was a place where he could show and explore his finished works. It would be like a tour of his own emotions when he walked the rooms of the gallery.
The walls of the gallery were generally black, creating an appropriate negative space for his patrons to consider each work. But as he walked the gallery, there was something else. The floor was made of tiles, which generally appeared black as well. However, as he stepped on them, they would light up - usually displaying a word or phrase.
As he placed the works in the gallery, over time, he began to see some patterns. At night, he would lay in bed, and tour his own virtual gallery. Most were personal in a way that had little to do with anyone else.
There were several, though, which embodied some element of relationships from the artist’s past. There was one with EB sitting pensively on the edge of a cliff, his legs dangling. Another showed the back of an artist, with a large wooden stake, burying it into the heart of a large man sitting in a leather chair. Another portrayed the artist and Flo, in a club. And though it was a painting, it featured sharp focus on himself and Flo, with painted bokeh behind them - making them appear even more alone in the scene.
Throughout this tour, the floor continued to light up. He recalled the following words and phrases:
Alone
Selfish
Faked Empathy
Loveless
User
Lacks Direction
Promiscuous
Socially Blind
As he continued to survey his collection, he grabbed the sketch pad again. This time, scrawling:
“I am the good and bad things which I have done”
***
The phrases and words he had seen had been burned into his memory somehow. They became baggage he needed to figure out how to lose. The artist recognized, of course, that all of these items had to do with not just himself, but himself and other people.
He sighed. Other people, that didn’t sound very motivating.
But maybe that was it. Maybe he needed to find instances of these moral transgressions, and try to remedy them. Why was he alone and selfish? Did he really fake empathy? With who? Did he love anyone or anything besides himself? He would need some time to sort all of this out.
Laying in bed, he tried to identify key experiences that he might be able to remember, that he might be able to repair in some way.
His first call was to EB. It had been so long - years? - since he last saw EB. As the artist had fallen into obscurity and mundane life, EB had maintained a status at the clubs around town. No longer a nightly regular, he did still manage to make regular appearances.
EB was surprised to hear from the artist. He had figured their falling out was final, and had moved on. The last time they were together was several weeks after Flo passed. EB had called him to see how he was doing, and invited him out for a beer. The artist maintained a quiet and sullen mood throughout that evening. And while he was obviously sad that Flo was gone, his sadness came across more as pity for himself, than sadness for the actual loss of Flo. EB had felt it important to bring this up with the artist, who not only denied it, but erupted in a fit of rage. He cursed EB, making gestures, and leveling an onslaught of terrible crimes upon him. EB took it all in measured stride. EB let the artist finish, at which point the artist looked mad, sweaty, exhausted. Then, EB simply looked at the artist, and shook his head. And then EB simply left the bar. The artist was standing, but barely. Another patron helped him sink into a booth seat. Still covered in sweat, the artist appeared to have just come out of some kind of trance. He just looked blankly at the people around him, and said nothing.
When EB picked up, the artist stumbled for a moment.
“Hey... uhm. Hey E. It’s uh...”
“Yeah I know. What’s up?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Uhm... I’ve been going through some stuff... and I wanted to see if you would, uh, maybe want to get a beer sometime?”
EB laughed to himself, sarcastically. “A beer sometime? Uhuh...”
The artist started, but EB interrupted him:
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“A beer? Are you fucking kidding me?”
The artist tried to explain, but again EB cut him off:
“Do you even fucking remember the last time we went for a beer? You went fucking crazy, blamed me for your fucking problems, and then disappeared. And now you think I would want to have fucking anything to do with you?”
EB sighed heavily.
“Look....”, said the artist - fully expecting EB to cut him off again, but this time he didn’t.
“Look, E. I know I owe you an apology, and I want to give you that. I’m better now, and I won’t go crazy or anything. I just need to see you... “
EB can hear the artist, but the essence of something else in his voice. It reduced his defenses, and he relented to the artist’s suggestion for when and where to meet.
At an empty dive bar, EB walks in to find the artist sitting alone. When the artist sees EB, his face lights up, and a big smile spreads. EB is a little surprised, since he looked so different now. EB's hair was longer, and dark. A light stubble covered his face. He told the artist he hadn’t gone by EB in a while. Now he was just Evan.
It took a couple of beers before the artist felt his inhibitions melt away, and then he began:
“Look, E. Evan. I was .... I was wrong. Back then. The way I treated you, and Flo, and others.”
EB was immediately focused on what the artist was saying.
“I was selfish. I only cared for myself and my gratification. I didn’t care about others. I saw them as things in a world I could manipulate for my own desires.”
With the word, “desires”, Evan blushed - remembering some long lost night with the artist.
“Look, I get it...”, started Evan. But the artist immediately cut him off again:
“Please. Let me finish what I need so say. I may not always be very good about expressing my feelings to other people, and with you I know I wasn’t very good at it. But...”
The artist took a moment.
“... but, with Flo it was different. I really did, really do, love her. And having to move forward without her has been one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do. But moving forward means more than just Flo. It means almost my entire past. There’s a wall to my progress, and I can’t get beyond it unless I really reconcile who I used to be with who I am now.”
“Ok, Ok.”, said Evan. “I get it. No worries. I am hear to listen...”
The artist made eye contact with Evan for just a second, before dropping his gaze back at the floor. “Yeah. Thanks ... I ... I uhm, appreciate that.”, he said choppily.
“The way I treated you was wrong. I don’t know why you kept hanging around with me, but I was just using you, in a way. I though you were so sexy and adorable, and I couldn’t help but find ways to be near you. Ways to get naked next to you...”
Evan listened, smiling somewhat.
“But that’s thing. I made it all about me. Which was wrong. It should have been about me and you.”
Evan looked up at the artist quietly. Looking him into the eyes...
“Hey, can I say something?”
(The artist remained quiet looking back into Evan’s eyes)
“It wasn’t just you. It was a very sexually tense atmosphere, and certainly I was also looking for someone to romp with to help ME get off.”
The artist smiled ever so small and slightly.
“So if this is about confessing that you can be sexually selfish, then count me in too!”
The artist’s smile broadened.
“Evan, it’s not just that. It’s that I have a pattern of this type of behavior. I have regular thoughts about how I can use others for my own benefits. I regularly consider my own needs above others. These are clear character flaws, Evan. They aren’t just run-of-the-mill human-ness. These are rare and curious flaws that I have to spend time with to even recognize them, much less adjust.”
“How can I help?”, asked Evan.
“You already have. Just responding, just listening is really what I need right now.”
That night, at home. The artist again grabbed the sketch pad, and scribbled:
The dark mirror reflects our dark souls
***
When he awoke the next morning-ish, he could see the words on the sketch pad:
The dark mirror reflects our dark souls
He thought to himself - yes, that’s right. All mirrors reflect us, what we see in our selves.
Each page upon he had written in the sketch pad, the artist had removed, and was now taped up somewhere in his place. For the moment, this one went on the inside of the main exit door. He wanted this to be front of mind when he left the house. He thought it might be like pinball bumpers, keeping him from disappearing into the hole of oblivion.
Still sitting in his bed, the artist crossed his legs. His hands were placed palms down on his knees. He assumed a relatively straight back, while tilting his head slightly forward. His mind focused on his breathing. He counted each breath - up to 10 or so, and then started again with 1. He then stopped counting, letting his mind wander. Then back to his breathing, and checking in with his physical body. Physically, he felt good.
Actually, physically he felt okay. Not great, there was stress in areas he couldn’t relax. More importantly, emotionally he felt scattered, like a gravel drive could make due for the nerves throughout his body.
As he completed the exercise, he did feel better.
He stayed in position with his eyes closed. As the meditation session ended, he found himself in his own virtual gallery, in his mind. He walked the aisles, explored the rooms. One main hallway, though not visible to him in the front of the gallery, seemed to connect all of the rooms and hallways. He glanced each way, finding a door at the terminal hallway to his left.
Walking normally toward the door, the artist was conscious of what he was doing, but anxious about what might be behind that door. He expected the door to be heavy, to be locked, to be immobile. But it was none of those. His hand grasped the carved handle and pulled toward himself. A bright light exploded into the hall way as the door opened. The light continued down the hallway, and into every room. The artist took a step back from the door. He stared into the first room he came to. His works, strategically placed around the room had - come to life? Was that even the right way to put it? His works, were alive, animated.
Time passed, and these works moved, self-animated. The animation helped provide context - a before and after to the now that was captured in each work. It helped the artist remember that there was some event captured in his work, not just a singular moment. A feeling - an emotion - that was more like a song than a single note.
The light, currently saturating his gallery, had now escaped into his library. In his library, it didn’t just illuminate, it became part of the space. The light injected itself into every shelf and every book. This would be his subconsciousness doing its own scan of the library.
It was only a few days later, and he heard a voice in his head. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time - definitely years. The words were garbled or something. He couldn’t understand what was being said.
Ad lucem
Ad locum
Capex dei
faber est suae quisque fortunae
fiat voluntas Dei
leges sine moribus vanae
“I am ready”
--
It was late when the artist decided to go see Sidney. Her departure had been unexpected - but only because he hadn’t been paying attention. He was able to locate her without too much trouble. He wasn’t sure if she’d be home. She lived in a house that had been converted to apartments. Hopefully alone, but he didn’t know.
He assumed she would be asleep when he got there. It was almost midnight, but her lights were still on. He parked on the curb, directly in from of the steps that led to the walkway toward her front door.
He stopped a few feet before the front porch. He picked up his phone and dialed. It rang twice before someone picked up:
“Hello”, said a tentative female voice.
“Hey”, the artist said. “It’s me.”
Nothing. No response. Just quiet for nearly a minute.
Sidney gave in first. “How are you?”
“I’m good. I mean, yeah, I’m ok. I just ...”, and his voice trailed off to nothing.
Sidney had assumed this visit was some kind of desperate booty call. But now she realized it wasn’t that at all. In her confusion, she decided to take a step back and listen.
This time Sidney let the artist go first. It took a couple minutes.
“Look. I mean. *sigh*. Fuck. I’m an asshole!”, that last phrase he said with his head down and clearly directed toward himself.
“What’s going on?”, Sidney asked. She knew he had occasional snaps or breaks, but this didn’t seem like one of those moments.
“Fuck, Sid. I messed up. I fucked up.”, he waited 10 or 20 seconds...
“I fucked us up...”, and the clock ticked without measure for a while.
“What do you mean? We both fucked it up. It wasn’t just you!”, Sidney offered.
“Please, just listen Sid. I know at least at one point you and I were great - fucking great together. And then something changed. And I think what changed was me. I lost my way, lost my grounding. And now that I know and recognize that, I can fix it. But I need help. I am all alone. I have pushed away every friend, burned most bridges. There aren’t a lot of people left who think of me as something other than a laughing stock!”
Sidney listened intently to his lament. She could hear the pain in his voice. She could sense the uneasiness of his whole existence. As a couple, this skill would emerge in the early seconds of some event, and it would allow Sidney to know that the need was real.
But now, across distance; not able to see his face, not able to see her face. Sidney could sense it, but it was just a blurry picture. Still, the picture left her uneasy. A brief 10-second or so episode left her properly freaked out. It was just a strange , deep, voice in her head:
“Be his eyes”
“Be his compass”
“Be his backbone”
“Be his soul”
“I understand”, she offered.
“Tell me what you need. How can I help you?”
***
“I get by with a little help from my God”
Sidney’s response had gotten to him. Her supportive nature caught him off guard in a moment when he felt particularly vindictive.
“I understand”, she repeated. “How can I help you?”
Her tone was honest and sincere. He had no reason to doubt her. But his paranoia and skepticism persisted.
“I need to call you back”, the artist spoke into the telephone. And then hung up.
In front of him, on the couch, was Evan. EB.
He was just relaxing there. He had been watching the artist, in his manic state, calling everyone.
Most of the calls, EB couldn’t make out. The artist would mumble quietly, or not say anything. So there was nothing to report. Except that there was suspicion, but only because of the timing of the artist’s calls. Each call was within 2 to 5 minutes to one of three prime suspects in the ongoing livestock destruction case.
And several other calls where to people he thought could help.
He called other artists. Trying to explain his history, his mindset. Trying to explain his compulsion, his isolation. For so long, they had written him off as eccentric, as an asshole, as someone with potential but who lacked the discipline to really become something. Hearing from him left them ... confused? They hadn't really given him much credence, assuming he had simply fallen off the scene. His voice ignited forgotten memories, none particularly polarizing. But they were all taken by surprise.
The artist had no idea what to say. It was always awkward. He would say hello, and then try to explain his circumstance. He would try to express what he was doing. Strangely, for a person who was so skilled at expressing himself via art, he was terrible at expressing himself directly to other humans.
In the end, he would simply tell them he was reinventing his life, and needed to connect with people from his past to either close the door, or invite them into his next chapter. Most of them fit into the first category, door closed due to the strange phone interaction. But a few had made it past that weirdness, and engaged to understand what the artist was going through. They offered their support.
But he didn't necessarily want their support. He wanted their guidance, their forgiveness. It took time and effort to explain what he was doing. It wasn't just apologizing for past behavior. He needed their input to help him. He needed their active perspective more than their passive acceptance.
The artist continued down his list of colleagues, old lovers, managers, gallery owners, and casual acquaintances. Most conversations were still pretty short. They had written him off years ago, or essentially forgotten him.
Each call improved his confidence. He wanted it to feel natural, but it was becoming an act. Becoming a caricature. He was falling into a predictable script, and as a result, it was losing its flavor. He was confident, but the results weren't always coming.
But it was ok. He was getting what he wanted - what he needed. Feedback that told him what he already knew to be true.
***
“Only you can make things right”
Somewhere in his vast mind was a museum of sorts. If you've ever been to Madame Tussaud's, with all the wax figures, this was similar to his museum. Except instead of recognizable celebrities, his museum was stocked with acquaintances.
The rooms in the museum were arranged somewhat sparsely. Never too many people in a single space. And, strangely, not all of his acquaintances. These were all the people he had wronged in some way.
He spent time in his mind, thinking of each person, approaching each in turn.
His approach was basically the same. He would face each sculpture. He would admit his offense. He would look into their fake eyes, helping build his confidence. But, of course, they never blinked or responded. Their vacant expressions responded statically. No change.
But still, he made his rounds. Each face, a new memory, a new injury. Each he would have to accept responsibility for. He would have to face his accountability for these pains he caused others. Each was a test. Each was harder, not easier. He thought it would become rote, like his calls. But it was never rote. The voices on the other end of the phone. The actual people were manifest on the phone, they were blood and oxygen and water. They were life and ideas and emotions. Their reaction to him was instability. They had never expected to hear from him again. They had written off his presence in their lives. If they had seen him out, they would have avoided him.
But his humble account, and his exposed vulnerability took them by surprise, and played as authentic for their interpretation. Most of them accepted his exposition, accepted his taking of responsibility. In a way, it freed them from holding on to those emotions. They had wanted to see him as a demon who had caused those ice burgs in their emotions. But the reality was that he was just a person, just a human, just a boy. He never had intentions to haunt them.
But the ghost in their lives had been him for so long. They wanted to let it go, and they tried. But giving up that ghost isn't easy. So they held onto their perceptions. They held on to their demons. Sometimes demons can be reassuring. And these ghosts were no exception.
Try as he might to resolve their fears and obsessions, he could only do what he could do.
Any demons that remained became their own responsibility. After all, no person only interacted with the artist. They all had their own lives, and their own interactions and influences. He could only be responsible for his own doing; not for everyone's own demons.
***
“I am sorry”
For each person he called, he simply started with: "I'm sorry."
It was a great ice breaker. For people who were really pissed at him, hearing that disarmed them. What can you say to someone who falls on the sword like that? He is prostrating himself, he is executing his own ego, to reflect his remorse. You could beat him down, but to what end? He's already as down and flat as he can be. The only response was to accept his apology.
The shame and guilt was like a giant snow hill that the artist needed to clear. At first, it was overwhelming. But overtime, he got the hang of it. Scooping up the snow, and ejecting it elsewhere, where it was no longer a burden.
It was a completely solo effort. Each call, each conversation was independent. No one to coach him or direct him. The artist had to call each person on his own, give them each his confession, his acceptance. The pattern had become familiar, but the effort and anxiety was the same for each call. He dreaded everyone. He was certain that one or all of his targets would berate him, diminish him, and exclude him from their ranks.
His experience, though, was quite different. They had mostly been calm, understanding. They had mostly been accepting of his apology, with many expressing their long-standing desire for such an expression from him.
The process was extremely draining for the artist. Each conversation was like a withdrawal from a bank, and he was running out of cash. He took frequent breaks, and had to extend the conversations over several days.
In the end, he was exhausted. His energy was gone. He could talk for forever, but he couldn't continue living in that space of not just talking, but of emoting, of expressing, of humbling himself for very long. His nightly rest was essential to re-energize him.
***
“You are not perfect; but you can decide”
After interacting with so many people, he was not just exhausted. He was reduced to his core. He was stripped of his failed opinions and perspectives.
In his bed, he didn't want to get up. He had no desire to get up and eat, to drink, to live. He just existed in that space for two days. When circumstance drove him to eat, he did so reluctantly. EB had left him days ago.
He had certainly wronged a lot of people. But why had he done so? It wasn't just about his perspective or attitude. It was deeper. Why had he been such an asshole - to so many - for so long?
His list of people had run out. He had received all of their feedback; all of their perspective. Now, it was just himself, and the picture others painted of him. This strange mirror was not what he expected. He had thought of himself as something quite different. But now the evidence was clear. He was a cause of pain and misery in others. He never saw it that way. He had always assumed that he was enriching everyone's lives with his brilliant insight. Reality was here to tell him that he was an asshole whose opinions had limited positive impact, and whose attitude has disenfranchised many of his so-called friends.
From this experience, he began to make a list. Each person he had wronged, each bad idea he'd followed. Each one itemized in a notebook. Each with a notation about his own perspective on the event or idea. Each one approached with acceptance, rather than defensiveness.
The first place he visited was Flo’s grave. Though she had been cremated, there was a headstone and her ashes had been scattered here. As he approached the site, his body felt light, like he was ten feet tall and walking on air. Like his body was made of paper, all the blood drained into the ground around him. The gravestone itself was small and simple. It had only her birth and death dates. And her name. Well... a name. It had Flo’s given name: Morris Errol Vandaver. The artist had heard this name only a few times. It seemed so foreign. Like this wasn’t really Flo, but someone else entirely. Still, he lingered, staring at the grass around the stone. In this moment, all of their times together exploded in his mind. He wished there was something he could have done - to prevent her death, to love her more, to give her more time. He knew her cancer wasn’t his fault. But he did feel responsible for not doing more to enrich her life during the time they did have together.
The artist went to see Sidney again.
He tried the buzzer, but there was no response. After a few more tries, he gave up. But now he was stuck. He stood, staring at her name next to the buzzer button. He took a notebook from his backpack, and a pen. He wrote Sidney a note, folded it, and stuck it next to the buzzer, with her name written on the outside.
Dear Sidney:
I’m sorry you are not here. I wanted to talk with you in person. Since I last saw you.. the vacancy you left - in our place, and in my life. I don’t blame you.
It was never your fault. My view of the world was different and chaotic during that time, and I frequently couldn’t see beyond my own emotions and selfishness. The needs that you had were there, but I neglected them when I should have been trying to understand and meet them. You were always so giving to me, but I took too much. And I am sure that when there was nothing left for me to take, that it was time for you to leave.
I held on to such anger toward you for too long. I wanted to blame you for the pain I felt. All the while knowing, but unable to admit, my own contribution to the situation. Over time I have come to realize who I am, who I was, and who I need to be. I hope you can forgive my behaviors and actions, and I wish you well in your life.
With love.
***
“There is God in the gray”
It was several weeks later, the artist needed a break. The research into his past and wrongdoings had taken a toll on his body, mind, and spirit. It was healthy in the same way that exercising is healthy. But you can't go out running a marathon day after day and not expect it to wear you down eventually. His sharpness was long worn. It was just his dull spirit and motivation now.
During the break, he stopped pursuing those he had wronged. But his brain continued to find reasons to hate himself. It was constantly finding past memories or fragments, and linking them to his everyday. He would be mindfully eating his lunch, when the memory of a high school colleague would show its face. In the memory, there was the artist, at a table. His sketchbook open, with one hand constantly making gestures onto the paper. His other hand was used to collecting the edibles from his plate, and injecting them into his face. In some kind of movie, this scene would be shot showing just the artist, eating, and drawing, and it would be innocent. But pan slightly around the table, and you see the artist's high school friend (colleague?), sitting across from him. His friend is saying something, looking for a response. But the artist, is lost in his sketch book. He doesn't even know what he is eating.
But here he sat. Trying to be mindful. Trying to ignore his memories.
He found it somewhat natural to wrangle his errant thoughts, and return to a focus on his breathing. Every once in a while, though, the thought wasn’t errant. It had a different flavor, a different character. He recognized these thoughts. They were simultaneously joyful and miserable. They were a mix of good and bad, black and white. Once synthesized, they were a dull grey.
But that was ok. The artist could still taste the God in that grey. He could still sense the source of his dead love, and his nemesis.
***
“The carried is now the carrier”
Having studied his own intentions and values; having finally recognized a purpose; having experienced life and death; love and loneliness; passion and pain. A new kind of thought came to him. It was from the grey, but it had a new kind of character. It wasn’t a work of art, per se. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the final work of art.
The weather was chilly that day, but the skies were clear.
The artist arrived at the park on the river around noon, just as the sun was overhead, and warming him. This section of the park had ample open space for grass, with trees sparsely planted. The was a small cluster of trees near the river, and the artist selected one of them.
The tree was oriented such that when he sat at the base of the tree, the river was behind him, and in front of him was a paved path for runners. The sun was such that it shown directly onto his torso, and legs. His face shadowed by a branch.
Sitting in this spot, the artist could hear his breathing. He could hear his heart. He could hear the grey ideas. He could also hear the river, and the birds. The occasional scurry of a squirrel or chipmunk. The foot falls of runners. The muddle conversation of friends walking by. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his leg and chest, and his hands in his lap. He could smell the figs ripening on the tree. He could taste the fig flavor. He could feel the ground beneath his body.
He was present in his meditation, but also in the world around him. His breathing was relaxed.
He heard footsteps on the path; not running, just casual walking. They had soft rubber souls, but his current mindfulness state heightened his hearing, and he could make out the squish of each foot fall. And then, they stopped.
The artist continued in his meditation, not moving or opening his eyes. He did, however, concentrate more on his hearing for the moment. He heard the rubber shoed person shuffle around for a few seconds, then a sound he did not recognize. Then, no more foot sounds. Now, only breathing. But not just his own; he could also hear rubber shoed person’s breathing.
He continued in this way until he was satisfied that his meditation was complete. Then, he opened his eyes. On the path in front of him sat a non-descript person. From where he was, he couldn’t tell their age, gender, or really anything. The person continued sitting, their eyes apparently closed. Their breath, easy with a regular rhythm.
The artist sat, observing. Within a few minutes, the rubber-shoed person opened their eyes. The artist smiled, the person returned the smile. Neither person changed their posture.
After sitting for a while, the artist closed his eyes and began to think. During this time, he heard the rubber-shoed person depart.
The next day, the artist returned to the park. The rubber-shoed person also returned to the park, and the two repeated their experience of the previous day. This went on for a week or so. Then, one day, as both persons were meditating, they heard a pair of joggers - a man and woman, or maybe a heavier and a lighter person - based on the contrasting sounds of their foot falls - suddenly stop. They could hear some brief muddled talking. Then the rustle of the grass near the artist. A few more slight sounds, and then - just breathing.
Another week passed, with the four persons meditating under the fig tree in the park near the river. Then, another couple joined them. Then a small group of female students. And soon, the group grew to as many as fifty persons, meditating mid-day.
It had become his final work; his last artistic expression. The work was himself. The patrons and observers had to enter into the same expression to really understand it. And when they did, they stuck around. Because, they too, wanted to be like the artist.