Bones
Eight
Six months ago, Nick drew something. It was a girl, braided brown hair in a fishtail braid, skin all tan and soft and full of girl-essence. And when he goes to the grocery store down the street, he sees this girl. This figment. And he stops.
And he stares. And she stares back. And Nick feels a bit like a pervert when her lips curve downward, her eyes narrow, and she slowly looks away. Looking, of course, over her shoulder mere steps away to see if the creeper-crawler is following her.
Nick is definitely not a creeper-crawler.
Nick is a not so starving artist, something he has strived to and worked hard at. Indubitaly. Yes, well whatever. Déjà vu and everything else put aside, the girl is familiar. He’s seen her, where has he seen her? Six months is a long time, who fucking cares. And Nick moves on. Mostly because he doesn’t actually care enough to sit on stupid things like fishtail braids and blue eyes and pink lips and other lovely womanly attributes. Kind of like that waif (wraith?) Jamie.
Jamie is a cat, you see. He comes and goes as he pleases. He has His Own Agenda.
Jamie, well, Jamie doesn’t really Do Anything. But count. And other stuff Nick doesn’t really notice, like rearranging the contents of the kitchen and alphabetizing his CD's and painting the bathroom baby blue. He reads sometimes, Jamie does. From T. S. Eliot to Nabokov to Tom Wolfe. Vonnegut to Bukowski, Joseph Heller and Kafka and Hesse and Burroughs. Chuck Klosterman and Bret Easton Ellis and Craig Clevenger and Hary Kunzru. And some of the greatest minds in history: Homer, Voltaire, Faust, Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Shakespeare, and Thoreau and on and on and on. Their book is full of houses, er, something like that..
Jamie lives in these books, when he has the energy to imagine greater heights.
Dusty bookshelves, bowing in the middle from the weight of all the hard backs (first edition, always, always, always; This Is A Must..) Nick has his art and Jamie has his books and each one has their own version of reality. Reality is what you make it.
Because, Reality, as you know is like insanity (or is it gravity?)
All it takes is a push.
And he stares. And she stares back. And Nick feels a bit like a pervert when her lips curve downward, her eyes narrow, and she slowly looks away. Looking, of course, over her shoulder mere steps away to see if the creeper-crawler is following her.
Nick is definitely not a creeper-crawler.
Nick is a not so starving artist, something he has strived to and worked hard at. Indubitaly. Yes, well whatever. Déjà vu and everything else put aside, the girl is familiar. He’s seen her, where has he seen her? Six months is a long time, who fucking cares. And Nick moves on. Mostly because he doesn’t actually care enough to sit on stupid things like fishtail braids and blue eyes and pink lips and other lovely womanly attributes. Kind of like that waif (wraith?) Jamie.
Jamie is a cat, you see. He comes and goes as he pleases. He has His Own Agenda.
Jamie, well, Jamie doesn’t really Do Anything. But count. And other stuff Nick doesn’t really notice, like rearranging the contents of the kitchen and alphabetizing his CD's and painting the bathroom baby blue. He reads sometimes, Jamie does. From T. S. Eliot to Nabokov to Tom Wolfe. Vonnegut to Bukowski, Joseph Heller and Kafka and Hesse and Burroughs. Chuck Klosterman and Bret Easton Ellis and Craig Clevenger and Hary Kunzru. And some of the greatest minds in history: Homer, Voltaire, Faust, Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Shakespeare, and Thoreau and on and on and on. Their book is full of houses, er, something like that..
Jamie lives in these books, when he has the energy to imagine greater heights.
Dusty bookshelves, bowing in the middle from the weight of all the hard backs (first edition, always, always, always; This Is A Must..) Nick has his art and Jamie has his books and each one has their own version of reality. Reality is what you make it.
Because, Reality, as you know is like insanity (or is it gravity?)
All it takes is a push.