She sits there in the corner, my mistress, my muse. Grinning a sly smile, that infuriates me. My eyes grow wide as they take in every detail hoping something, anything, will jump out at me and show me the way to move forward from this, my place of complete stillness. What I wouldn't do to, to break free of these chains that hold me close and will not let go.
I'm trying to think. I'm trying to concentrate, but all I can see is that damned smile. I push back my hair and rub at my forehead as I shut my eyes and try to think, try to imagine anything else. But she is all I see. She and her red ruby lips and sparkling white teeth that seem to me places of rest for those who cannot break her spell.
I'm close to madness. Every passing moment sees me closer and closer to the edge of the cliff and the yawning precipice below. I am frightened beyond all possible measure and know for certain that if I go over I will never be coming back, not as I am now anyway. I have to push her away and focus on something else.
I reason with myself to the best of my ability and turn completely about as I gaze upon the world of infinite possibility that is a blank canvas. I take a moment to just breathe before allowing my hand to take hold of the paintbrush awaiting my talented hand. I put the brush to the canvas and leave a big blob of red paint.
"This will not do!" I shout aloud, to no one while conducting with my instrument. "This isn't right! Move damn you! Move you blasted hand! This is not the way things are done and you know it!" I heave great breaths of frustration out of my body. "If you will not move then I shall cut you from my arm and then good luck trying to find another fool willing to take you on!"
I take control of my person before the rage can take hold. I refocus on those other things in the room as I have no other choice. Madness is too close for my comfort at this time. I look to all my previous attempts. The other canvases standing stock still, like a graveyard, a testament to my dead talent.
I cannot think on these matters with any kind of clarity. If my mental faculties have failed me then there is only to rely on natural instinct to see me through. I try again, trusting all of my energy to my wayward hand, hoping that the lesson has been learned and I need not follow through with my threat. A feat I am unwilling to make a reality.
I dip my brush in the water and swirling the red remnant on the bristles, creating a cloud of crimson. I pull it back out as it drips on the floor and swirl it around in the blue paint. Another blob of paint hanging in mid canvas. A companion to the red blob that lies nearby. I'm getting frustrated and my hand is shaking.
I thrust the paintbrush into the water and snap my head about. My muse is still sitting within her gilded frame, hanging from atop the mantle. A place of honor for the very best I have to offer. Her perfect white teeth that could belong only to one who has received a thorough cleaning and not touched a morsel of food.
Lips of red are their dress and they wear it with such elegance and debonair that one might forget they are merely ornamentation. Seductive, alluring, they hang within the frame of a pristine white face, peeking out from shadow which makes them stand out all the more. Where did she come from? Where did she go? Why is she not here now, with me?
I feel the spiral coming on. I am slipping down a slide that will only intensify the longer I follow its path. Recognizing the warning signs, I opt to turn away entirely lest I be fed into the woodchipper that are the forces that will not give me a moment's peace, but seek to chew me up and spit me out into an unidentifiable mass.
I try to return to my work as I know it to be my only solace in this pit that will not let me leave. I can't get my mind to focus on it, or anything for that matter. All visual stimuli is being fed into my eyes, but they are all blobs of distortion. I close them and shake my head several times as I plant my skull in my hands.
I stop my motion and listen intently. There is only silence. I peek my eyes above my fingers and find that I am still in my room, surrounded by all the familiar things in crystal clear clarity. I recognize that I must slow down. Allowing my anger to affect me physically is never a good way to remain sane, in as much as I am able.
Time to shift focus once again. I ready my hand and reach for the brush, but I am halted before my digits can wrap around the stem. My spirit is willing, but my flesh weak. That is, my mind is not with it. All I can do is stare as my eyes rove about the place and the many canvases that were meant to be my greatest achievement.
I gaze at a blank landscape, my first attempt. Then onto a crying clown that looks far too happy, my second attempt. Moving toward a crystalline cliff overlooking a forever expanding coastline that has far too many jagged edges and hard lines, I can't even recall when I tried that.
They all come at me, one after another. The sitting dog. The standing fruit. The girl on a swing. The veritable elephant in the room, my attempt at humor. None of it any good. None of it measure up to my ability. They are all sorry excuses that should never have been allowed outside of my head.
All I can think of is the one piece I finished painting and I look to her. I go beyond the alluring features of her face and take in all the details. She, a sultry lounge singer, leaning against the piano, draped in a slinky red dress. Her face cast in shadow, but with a bright smile tinged with a hint of seduction and just a dash of insanity.
The one piece that launched my fame. Praised by both critics and regular art goers. Heralded as one of the best pieces in our modern times. A call back to classic form with a new updated image. The adulation seemed to have no limit and I basked in the overflowing graciousness of a satisfied public.
I was happy, so very happy. My lady was everywhere, her smile was too. I even started to fear I might get sick of it, but no such consequence ever visited me. In those days, those short, wonderful days, I could have lived in a room plastered with her image over and over again. I was awash in veritable bliss and nothing could bring me down.
Then came that infuriating question that had been at the back of my mind all the while, but was asked by a reporter. "Do you believe this piece of art is a fluke?" the astute woman put to me as she scribbled in her notepad. "That you will never do a piece as good again?"
I can hear it playing through my head on repeat. I can't shake it, I can't get it out of my head. What's worse, it's not the voice of the reporter I hear, it's my own. Each and every time emphasizing the word 'fluke'. The word is like a disease that has infected my mind and will not leave me be.
I don't want it to be a fluke. I want it to be only the first in a long line of paintings, the scaffolding for my ever-reaching climb to the top. No, I don't want it... "I need it!" I seethe aloud through clenched teeth.
I return to the palette. Green paint, that should do it. No, not green, it's not dynamic enough. Orange, that should do the trick. Blob after blob, a cascade of color with no form. No body. No image. No talent.
The last word sets me off. I put my fist through the canvas. It feels good. I topple the next. I throw a third. After that I'm not sure of what I did, only that it was violent and made me feel very happy. Soon all the headstones are scattered about in service to my chaos. Dilapidated, broken, torn. All ruined, all beautiful.
"Darling, what are you doing?" my lady calls from her place and flashes her eyes upon me.
I look up, my own smile spread across my face, laced with salivation. "I'm just, enjoying my art!" I start in and wring my hands repeatedly. "I'm just, treating it in a manner befitting it's existence! Tapping into my primal need, my anger, my hatred! I'm just doing anything I can to wipe that smug look off of your face! You dime a dozen, penny ante, poor excuse for a femme fatale!"
She just leers at me. "Well, if that's the way you feel," she remarks as she begins to fade, like rising vapor dissipating into the atmosphere. The smile being the last thing to go.
I was all alone, with a tremendous mess all around me. Maybe I'd clean up later, or better yet, lock the door and brick it up. Then I wouldn't have to face that mess ever again.
I open the door to the other room, flip off the light and allow the moonlight pouring in from the window to illuminate the disaster I leave behind. I shut the entry behind me walk into the next room and stand before a shelf set for my purposes. I start to conduct myself in a manner befitting the ease my mind feels being away from the elements of my torment.
I pick out a proper tumbler from the lineup that meets my eye. I reach for the decanter and pour myself two, no three fingers of Bourbon. I definitely need it. I move along with my drink and sit down at my desk. I nip at my beverage as my fingers fly across the keys on my electric keyboard. I was a better musician anyway.