I am holding a piece of charcoal in my hand. A blank page in front of me. Music at just the appropriate volume for inspiration. But the loud noise is dumped down in my head. I am sitting on the cold tiled floor sketching.
Not rushing, fingers coiling and rubbing where the drawing needs attentive mending. I am aware of my presence in the room but there is also an entire universe etching itself on my body. I am willing. Scared but nonetheless willing. Who is to say that the artist is fully present in the creation of the artwork? There are many worlds at reach to us but we just never open ourselves up completely to.
The question moves from “what do you think about love?” To “what do you think about sex?”
I tremble. My thoughts stutter.Smoking on the balcony. Maybe it’s like inhaling and stretching time to live in that one shared breathe.For a moment. You are an inferno inside.I think sex is like a deep breath that stands time still and the rest of its followers. You are not chasing after it. But rather melting in the elasticity of it.Not running and trying to catch your breathe, just inhaling, and exhaling out whenever your lungs need a fix.
The poet in me is still trying to tidy my thoughts for an honest answer. But my mind is a room full of intellectuals, critics, pessimists, artists and moralists all speaking at the same time. Me? I am not in the room but at the same time I am. My real thoughts are the small light in the keyhole. Not sure which side of the room they belong, not bright enough to light the entire room. Just curious and nervous to show up completely. So the stuck-up asshole versions of me seep through.
“I think a lot about sex.” Is my answer. What exactly about it, is an entire world i rob myself of.
I have stepped outside of myself and I am watching myself from the bed, from the desk, from the door,from the balcony, from all positions. I seem to have swallowed most of what I really wanted to say.
My throat is dry. I am erasing all the words that won’t come out now. My head is left with that rubbing sound on a page. I have made a mistake on my sketch. The room is quiet. The drawings on my wall are staring at me. I want to deem it artistic licence that I am so negligent and cowardice but that would be condescending.I have not been avoiding the question, just the unsteadiness that comes with welcoming it.I enjoy the relationship i have with the floor, i know that it is always there. There is nothing more tangible and certain than knowing the ground below you.
I’m not afraid of letting go, but it’s the unknowing of what comes after you forget you are not anchored anymore. John Kani was right about freedom, too much of it is dangerous. We never know what to do with something that comes all at once in access, its overwhelming. But on the flip side, a little bit of danger never hurt nobody, or at least, the adrenalin rush is necessary at times.
It’s a weird comparison I’m making in my head, also considering my inexperience but nonetheless i figure it must be like that, sex. An overwhelming gush of everything humanly.
Question now is, how long can you live on that high before the rest of the world deems you “unstable”?
The other day this tall black man handed me a pamphlet written “Personality Test”. He says to me I’m beautiful and that i should stop frowning. But i must still come for the test.
“It will be good for you, it’s just one hour and we have professionals to talk to about how you can get your life in order afterwards”, he says.
I wonder if he complimented every other person he told about the “FREE PERSONALITY TEST THAT HELPS YOU IN THE TROUBLED AREAS OF YOUR LIFE” before he told them that they are probably messed human beings too.
I’m tired of talking and thinking about things i don’t know. And people telling me and asking me about things i’m expected to know. It reminds me of how much of a coward and conformist I actually am. I also haven’t completed sketching Bukowski’s face, his mouth is missing but the moment is gone and i deem the piece complete.