artistic process

eventually, there are no more distractions.

there's nothing on television; you know there's nothing on television because the season has ended and everything is reruns, and reality TV shows, like, tough love: couples, where the men cry and the women's breasts are so padded, like swollen fruit about to burst. you've seen it all before, all the episodes of it's me or the dog, the poor man's dog whisperer, and you paused, briefly, on a lifetime movie featuring elizabeth barkley, in a tour-de-force performance, portraying a high school teacher accused of seducing her young student.

so the TV went off, and you read for a while, muddled your way through a drug-addled muddle, then turned to a culinary memoir, the author of which ostensibly led an idyllic life, her mother's inability to cook the only real trauma, thus far, in a narrative peppered with all the usual cliches and more adverbs than you care for, though you do appreciate the recipes.

reading about food made you remember how you hadn't eaten much, and you felt dizzy, so you took a nap. first you dreamed someone was at your door; you could hear a door knocker creaking on the lift, thudding against cheap wood on release, over and over again, with no response when you asked who was there and could see no one through the peephole. when you opened the door, the hall was empty. you remembered, you don't have a door knocker. you dreamed you had your hair done but your pothead of a stylist screwed it up so badly that you could hardly stand it, you'd go back to the salon, right that minute, and make her fix it. you rose off the couch and used the bathroom, collected your keys, and your purse, and wrapped a scarf over your head to cover up the soon-to-be-corrected damage. you played the scene out in your head, how you would stand up to her, you wouldn't let her bully you into another style you didn't like; you started for the door, gripping your car keys in a clenched fist. you jumped and realized you were still on the couch, sweating with the prospect of confrontation. immediately, you touched your head, checking your hair as if the particles of dust filtering through your apartment care what you look like.

feeling restless, you went outside. once there, you were assaulted by the blazing pale legs of wafish girls in cut-off shorts and scruffy boys in burnt-out t-shirts milling around on the grass or taking up too much sidewalk space. so you went back inside.

you looked at shoes on the internet. red peep-toes. then blue peep-toes. you are trying to wear less black. you are trying to be more like the kind of girl who gives deep thought to the color of her nailpolish. so far, the effort is more struggle than it is worth.

somehow, you discovered the kid from kick-ass is british and has that strange talent almost all british people seem to possess, of raising his eyebrow in a naughty way so you watch videos of him refusing to put on an american accent and learn he is engaged to a woman almost 23 years his senior, which makes you think there's hope for you, yet.

then you watch videos of mcbadass from grey's anatomy (ok, and rome. and trainspotting.) happily displaying his talent for accents.

then you watched craig ferguson and ewan macgregor dance around like leprechauns.

you did the dishes.

you tried on some clothes, putting outfits together that will never see the light of day because, really, you just don't dress up.

you discovered two moldy lemons on a shelf in the kitchen and marveled at their extreme ruination, half of one entirely green and white and lumpy, like the surface of a lost planet. and yet, pears you bought nearly two weeks ago are seemingly healthy as ever.

you turned the radio on. garrison keillor was singing. you turned it off.

you remembered that on thursday, you spent the first half of the day crying at your desk with a paper towel from the bathroom pressed against your eyes so hard you saw more than stars, you saw kalidescope patterns shifting in ardent circles; each time you removed the towel, you teared up again; thinking about tearing up made you tear up so you turned the TV on, again, only to turn it off.

outside, the car alarms have quieted and the lights in the apartments across the alley are off. you have some pages, not blank, but imperfect, a semblance of a story, a collection of words that, like the many outfits you try on in the safety of your closet, will likely never see the light of day but you keep at it, keep making yourself mad with the torture of creation because you've done everything else, and have nothing left.