Art or vandalization? (fiction)
Return to Art or vandalization? (fiction)
|Before you left, you were quite busy with those tools of yours. Every minute we spent together you constantly put your image in everything surrounding us at any time. You carved and cut, painted and pressed. You hacked, sculptured and moulded. You burnt, etched and chiselled. You marked every little detail, using your bare hands and your voice.
Where did you get all that energy from?
Anyway, the results are really overwhelming.
Every time I enter my bathroom I can see your contour in the bathtub. Your impression got deeper for every candle-scented bath we shared. Your fingers massaging my head while washing my hair. You gave your piece the final touch when your hands pushed me off that cliff and into deep, legs around your neck. I haven't had a dip since you left.
When I take a walk in my garden I can feel your presence. Your scent is in every flower that vigorously tries to reach the sky. I can see the print of your body in the pillows of my hammock. You left your mark on it every time you sat there, your cigarette dangling from your lips, the smoke slowly swirling through the waxy, green leaves of the bushes surrounding us, your computer in your lap. The fingers on your right hand tapdancing on the keyboard, your left arm around my shoulder. I tried to sit in my hammock the other day, but those dents you made, make it very uncomfortable. I haven’t had a swing since you left.
My bed still vibrates from your soft pushes and hard buffets against my hips. Where did they go, the long nights of drinking white wine and touching every square inch of skin? I remember your lips. Your smiles of shyness and lust combined. The snapshots, the laughs, the talks. Your craving for my presence in your arms as we were going to sleep. Every move you made generated heat. It is too cold now. I haven't slept a whole night since you left.
I can feel the scratches on my kitchen countertop from that time you put me on top of it and took away my fear of my neighbours seeing our rocking bodies through the window. And the room is still a mess after the dinner we made that day. The one impossible to cook. But we did and we ate it. We didn't have time to do the dishes either. They're still dirty, they're still there. I haven’t had a taste for anything since you left.
Even when I drive my car, you're there. It's like I'm in the passenger seat, with you driving. Your hand on the gear lever. My hand on your knee. Your joyful cheers ringing in my ears, like we still were racing in your car, helmets on, air filled with roaring sounds and the smell of burnt rubber. Now I only do transportation. I haven’t had a whirl since you left.
Your image is everywhere. In 3-D and with sound effects too. I knew you were a genius, but this is still very impressive work. Especially that trick painting your eyes so vividly in the face of every man I see. So cool. That effectively freezes the butt of my libido. I can't bear to be intimate with anyone while you are staring at us. That might be every woman’s fantasy, but for me, three is one too many. I haven't made it since you left.
You shifted my past, my present and my future, and now I’m stuck in reverse. Every little detail of my life now carries you in it. You even transformed me as well. Maybe I was too easy to model. Maybe I was too much alabaster and too little marble. You really did a remarkable job with me. Not that I asked for it. But I couldn't help being altered by your touch. My lips, once swollen from your kisses, once red and constantly smiling, are now dry, pale, quiet, static. I haven't had a laugh since you left.
Being changed in different ways by people you meet is everyone’s destiny. My new shape is very uncomfortable though, and I have to find a way to adjust. My clumsiness shows as I perform my daily tasks. You left too soon, not finishing off your work. You could at least have taken your time to do some polishing before saying goodbye. I'm much too edgy, much too rough, and I feel the pain of a thousand isolated images. Nothing gives me that good feeling anymore. And that's why I wonder. Is this true art or pure vandalization? I'm ruining my nylons here!