In a room, a young man with paint and a paintbrush and a canvas thinks about where the next splash of paint should be splashed, and, while doing so, hums a quiet tune. Remember that tune: you'll need it later. Anyway, this young man, whom I've just described as a painter of sorts in the process of painting, now, at last (for me, at least; for the rest of you have only just joined us), puts brush to surface and creates an abstract face of blue. The use of blue here, I believe, indicates to the looker (that's us) the mood of this figure. A good-looker will spot this instantly, but for you, who've only been with me a few short weeks, it'll take a while longer. You'll get better with practice.
In this room, this young man spends a while longer on his masterpiece, finishing it about now with a delicate stroke of yellow. Good, huh? Pay extra attention to the use of lighting and form. You'll thank me later. And now the young man, the painter, marvels at his work, at his masterwork. Look at his face. Look at his genius.
A few hours pass and, as of now, have passed. His hands pass over the canvas. He feels every pulse of life within with every pulse of hand without. Then he reels back. I told you he would. Now he's taking a closer look. The room's lights—a couple of candles—dim obediently as the painter enters the other world. Yes, his body stays here, but his spirit is soaring somewhere we, with our academic imaginations, can only fail to comprehend. I have, nevertheless, written an approximation of what he may be experiencing:
Clouds. Clouds everywhere. I am free and floating. Below me are rolling green hills and beautiful forests. Everything is swimming. I am too. We are merging now into one. I am everything. I am the hills, the trees, the lakes, the butterflies. The clouds. I am as ethereal as ethereality itself. Every form of matter presents itself to me within me and without me. I am, I am.
Of course, one can never know, but, in light of his work, this must surely be close. Thank you. See how he's not moving? Not even his eyes. He's no longer of this world. He's somewhere much more spiritual. And we're stuck here. Still, you've got to play with your hand. The hand you've been dealt, I mean. But it makes you think. Makes you question the ol' 9-to-5, you know? Anyway, I'll see you all tomorrow.
Which is now. The young painter, in his workshop, is still very much there physically, but, as you can see, he hasn't moved, and thus we must deduce that he is still out-of-body. And you can't blame him. His hand and brush have opened the doors of perception the hard way, and I'm sure he doesn't want to throw it all away quite yet. Remember to mention this at the year's end. See you in a few weeks.
Even at the sake of his safety, he remains locked in the other world. His skin is pale and his bones are showing, but on the upper deck, peace reigns. He's reached the contentment we all strive for, and it's reflected in the painting. The blue figure has the same look as he does now. The 'not quite here' look. And, like him, the blue figure isn't aware of his surroundings. Remember to rephrase that when you come to write it yourselves.
Though dead, he still gives the impression of a free spirit, as if he is beyond mortal perceptions of life and death. I firmly believe that he is as he once was all those weeks ago. I'm sure this will be amusing to some of you, but to me it's as real as day. And on that note, have a good one.
I Thwart the Robotically Imminent
I've been overrun, the Parisian's been overrun, but Ben, being Ben (and, by rights, Yodo), is still holding them off gallantly with his marble-substitute trophy and his girly wits. A harrowing wind collapses me and I feel like a meek slice of butter and grease—and then you realise that you have wasted your opportunity to say anything—and I, me, him (to you), wonder about things and other things.
And now we've been viciously ex-patted from our homes and are both forced to seek refuge at Ben's hill, where we help out as best we can by making dinner and doing housework while our saviour fends off our foes (and his). Mother Stephan, meanwhile, looming like a God over the hillside, gazes down upon us—me in particular, his runaway son—and tempts fate and the mechanical onslaught with a dangling line of vulnerability.
Cries of cartoon creatures and dieting success stories rise from the unoiled cogs like kettle-drum-o-parking-lots and are picked up by the clever ears of our three overexposed but underdeveloped protagonists (me included), who were hitherto busying themselves with needlework; now, after I realise I just spent two-and-a-half grand on that joke, we make a stand outside our adopted home (in the two's case) and almost succeed in failing.
While all this rubbishy stuff is steadily going on, the Tu, locked up in an unnamed state, bemoans the state of his previous full-colour starring-role rendering, and heaves a sigh into his belly as he makes his way here. Wondering where my long hair went, and where is the me he used to know, he diverts himself innocently and taps metal keys in the dark. When at last the lights return, he discovers that the inked paper result reveals undesirable dark shades in personkind, which he previously thought nonexistent, having been raised on a diet of life-affirmation.
The dreadful chunder still remains in the form of a deeply unsettling and awful smelling stain across the face, which obscures all but the letters S, T, O and X. And it was his favourite T-shaped shirt.
In a small bedroom sits Harry. His eyes are fixed with intense concentration upon his human-sized canine, who in turn has her eyes fixed upon an enticing little bin hiding in the shadows and expelling a delightful odour.
Mr. Bee breathes easy by a safe man with head in hands.
And the three have finished their (our) stand, and now they (we) stood and watched our wrinkles become more and more prominent. It was fun to say the least, but I, being the race I am, prefer to say the most: it was an enlightening, bold, brash, humbling, beautiful and long experience.
And now we chew through the heavenly stairs and gates and clouds and angels until we may stumble upon our better halves and produce better thirds or quarters—if our seeds haven't dried up, that is; and if they really are the sunshines of our lust; and if Ben really hasn't paired-off with the bloodsucking machine of yesterday.
Over the Hill and Far Far Far
Here sits four decades wrapped in a bitter, wrinkling shell. The room is gloomy and filled with unsuccessfully hidden magazines. The centrepiece is an over-varnished Elizabethan desk with a stylish computer on it. The decades are tapping their furious and frail fingers on a transparent keyboard and causing letter-shaped pixels to appear on the screen. No relating or friendly years are ever seen in the room. On the bright side, the decades have upped their quotient to two posts a day. Today's post reads as follows:
Desolation squats above me like a ludicrous mosquito and lowers a tendril of despair into my vein. Outside, the collective world meets friends at a coffee shop and buys gifts for their adorable spouses. The day starts at morning, reaches the centre at midday and peaks at night time, yet to me this is only apparent through the light-levels in my room. I hate every wretched lung of personkind — mainly because I am part of it. There's no way to succeed in life. Not in this life. Not in this endless bowl of false fish and employment. I gaze upon my beautifully awful walls and picture myself sliding into 10 to 6 aprons. Loneliness is the only true emotion. I don't trust anyone who isn't lonely. Lonely. Yes, I'm quite lonely. I think I'll look at porn.
The decades are very proud of this addition. In celebration, they read through all the previous additions to remind themselves of how clever they are. As each giggle and exhale of awe is wrung from the text, the decades wonder how no one else appreciates it the way they do. Except maybe those loyal fans from decades ago. They've stopped posting comments, but the decades are certain they are still there. Somewhere.
Here stumbles the decades upon a 21-year-old post from August. No one will notice, they think. No one will mind. So they lift the second paragraph and post it anew.
Cups of Brown
A fresh cup of steaming brown was nestled in my hand. Aside from that, I positively decided, at that moment, that things, as they were, weren't as I necessarily wanted them to be. World politics swirled clockwise in my unsweetened cup, thanks in no small part to a silver spoon that may or may not have been in a newborn's mouth. Theories and ideals wobbled as I brought the cup towards my chapped lips and tilted my hand, which also, by rights, tilted the cup that was in it, eventually leading to a slope of brown that slid onto my tongue and was promptly swallowed. The history of personkind found refuge in my inner bits and infused me with contempt.
My next utterance resembled a gurgle, and would have, if deciphered, caused an open-minded soul to think about things, and perhaps even act upon things. Instead I was left with the remaining two-thirds of steaming brown which, in my hands, were destined for greatness: the greatness of my belly.