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When he passes (croaks, expires, kicks bucket), Papa is to leave me a substantial sum of money (the amount, I know not); only then shall I become an artist, a true artist — no ideas now, I’m sorry to say.
Would sit on the playground teeter-totter (or swings, or merry-go-round) for an alarming number of hours, thinking, pining for actionable designs, though none arrived in my head.
With money, you don’t pine for shit; you think about whatever it is you want to think about, nothing else.
Went to see a band play. Too loud to get any thinking done.
Attended a crowded reading at a bookstore. Enjoyed it, but I’m no poet — not so helpful.
I was appointed to a city commission, Public Arts — which, what does that mean? It means: sometimes there is room for murals, on municipal buildings, underpasses.
Didn’t get much from the experience, although I had my hand in some successful pieces, some well-received murals. Not that it was me painting them — but I’d aid in their conceptualizations, let’s say, and then their realizations. The artists never had advice for me. They’d say, Inspiration, it strikes when it does. (One of them had said this — she was a real artist.)
I decided to go into nature, that’s where everyone said to go. Thought of everything there, save for my art.
I went home. For a week afterward, I watched movies and, energized, cooked solo banquets each night, paella, branzino, coq au vin, and so on. I had food to give away, and, given the size of my refrigerator, I had to give it away. The neighbors adored me.
I watched the complete filmography of the half-forgotten, now-somewhat-reconsidered, proto-French New Wave crypto-maven Jacques Rozier. Mind you, this consists of only five films. (My favorite is called The Castaways of Turtle Island, you’d like it.) I was moved by them, and stimulated, titillated — but was I inspired? I’m not sure. I think not.
I sank in defeat. Smoked tobacco with weed. Tried punching a hole into the wall, but the wall would not give.
Knuckles bled and scabbed over; they soon resembled fatty steak, they looked positively marbled (so said my neighbor April, agog as I loaned her some Jean Rollin DVDs).
One day (who knows when this was?), Papa called me. I was playing with myself in bed. Sure, judge away. But the ringer was on, I had no excuse to not pick up. I picked up.
It’s unseasonably warm up here, Papa said. Makes me think of your grandmother. She played nine holes of golf five days a week. In the spring, she played every day! And she did get better over the many years! Might’ve joined the senior tour…
Me, I speak very little. Let him do the talking.
At the call’s conclusion, we said we loved each other, if not in those words.
A while later, I watched a film from Portugal. I was intrigued by it — somehow, it was both academic and sexy simultaneously — but I couldn’t say I had an idea of my own yet, not at that point.
And still cannot.
