Almost True to Life
I have had trouble writing. I have taken all of my large pieces and written and rewritten beginnings and drafts I don’t enjoy. Here’s something small that I don’t necessarily share for the writing. It’s interesting, and it shows me something interesting about the way I notice the world, and try to write it.
I am terrified of penning down real situations as I experience them. I feel like writing them down true to life makes me an invader. I have taken something in the moment, which was not meant to be studied and memorized and I have frozen it and picked it to pieces. I know it’s not offensive to the subject but I’m still afraid of offending them.
This little bit of writing reflects a very real life situation I experienced from close by. But this is not that situation. This is as close to life as I was willing to come. Hopefully you understand why the situation struck me, but even now I am afraid of those involved in the real situation somehow travelling across the internet to find me. Strange things. I know.
THE IMP AND HIS MOTHER
He crouched, crooked and low; making himself into an impish sort of figure beneath the large woman, who seemed always to be growing and trying to fill up the room. The small figure handed her a white sheet of paper, creased and ripped at the edges. Upon it he had smeared different coloured paints – red, blue, yellow – twisted about in messy lines that met in brown mixtures and splotches. He eagerly wrung his fingers, which showed the colours of his masterpiece on them still, and looked up at her with his large dog-eyes, waiting for her to respond. The large woman crumpled up her brow and gave her head a sort of twist to the side in thought. Her hand gripped the paper tightly, crumpling it at the corner. Finally she gave out a sort of shudder and belch, and swung the paper back down to the eager hands of the imp.
“Another weak presentation, Reginald.” she gurgled to the small man. “After the amount of energy I have speant teaching you the proper tecniques of artistic presentation and method, after the amount of time I have put into your education. After all the effort I have expended towards your becoming a proper artist, you are still handing me garbage. I’m afraid this is just another failure – another failure, Reginald. Must I show you again, Reginald. Must I show you yet again. She took the imp by the wrist, as a sign of her disgust for his dirty fingers, and attempted to drag him towards the wall. He hopped and bumped as he tried to keep up with her large body and long arms. She stood him up staring at the wall, where a large canvas was framed, lopsided, in an elaborate gold frame.
“Are you looking at this, Reginald. Do you see this? Look at my tecnique. Look at my form. Look at my fluid presentation. Again, Reginald. Do this. Why can you not simply do this? Why am I still getting such rubbish from you when you have my standard of presentaiton so available to you.”
The imp lowered the large dog eyes that were shakily eying the canvas. “I understand mother,” it whispered. “I am trying mother. You know that my fingers do shake so.”
“Shake so you say. Calm them down, then. I do not understand this obsession of yours with keeping your work so small and pathetic.”
She took him by the arm again and brought him back to a low table where a mess of sheets and paints were strewn about. She picked up the colours and thumped them onto the table in a neat bumdle, causing paint to fleck out and colour the face and eyes of the imp. He sloshed his hand across them like a child wiping away tears, and looked down at the clean sheet that was set before him.
“I swear that this time I will surely give up on you, Reginald. I am tired of helping you. You have seen my standard, you know what is expected of you, now I want you to improve upon your most recent failure. And I suggest that this time you stop thinking only of yourself and consider the thoughts of your mother.”
“Yes mother. I do understand how important this is to you.”
“If you do, your work is a poor refleciton of it.”
The large woman – the mother – carried herself out of the room and closed the door. The imp turned to watch her go. He looked at the canvases on the wall. He looked at the blank page, then he turned to me.
“Mother really does try with me. I am glad that she has continued to help me when so many others would have given up. She understands things; art, life, things, so well. She really is excellent… with things.”
Reaching out his hand he dipped his fingers into the paints, and began sloshing them about on the page again. But he was painting blindly. His eyes were, all the while, watching the paintings on the wall, framed in gold. In the elaborate frames on the wall, the messy splotched finger paints looked far more hideous than any the imp had created.
“Mother says she will give up on me if this next piece is a failure. I must be more diligent.” From the next room came the loud clapping and mumbling sound of the television, playing daytime talk shows and soap operas.
