What the artist drew

The artist set up in the park at the top of the hill with no easel, just a sketchbook, some pencils, and pens to go over really outstanding lines. The park was waterfront, grassy, with old fashioned street lamps and lots of kids playing, dog walkers. Small sailboats meandered on the water that went straight out to sea. The artist had a baseball cap on, but flipped it backwards now because the shadow of the brim kept falling across the paper. After staring for a while, turning and looking up, down, taking it in, sipping something from a canteen, the artist set to work. In twenty minutes, a pulse, a zone, had been found, and the whole scene of movements, kids playing dogs walking boats sailing, was one jello-like solid, one scene of motion all around the artist who was making lines and lines and lines.

The artist kept looking up, off to the ocean. Kept studying the fine shadows and curves of the leaves and the grass, the particular turn of a child's cheek. Tried looking at what inquisitive dogs were seeking out, nose to ground, and the artist kept looking up and kept going back to the sketchbook now to erase or to add, to smudge with a tongue-moistened finger and then hold out, look at with head slightly tilted. Once the artist turned to the next sheet and started fresh. The children down the hill sounded distant, the way people at the swimming pool do just as sleep begins to arrive, from a lounge chair.

For two hours, the artist worked and looked, finally getting out some colors – but that only lasted a minute; they didn't seem to be working out right. A woman reading on a nearby bench was so curious, kept looking up over her pages trying to watch what the artist drew, but couldn't quite see well enough, was not aware that the book had moved to her lap and she was just staring. And still the artist drew.

A cloud passed overhead, the temperature dropped a few degrees. The artist had a sweater on the grass, but didn't make a move for it. Turned the baseball cap to front facing. Did not know the woman was watching from behind, and finally, all at once, as an apparently spontaneous decision with the pencil barely lifted from the page and not an extra moment of contemplation, the artist packed everything up, checked the time, and walked off up the hill.

Most of the sailboats were turning in and the cries of the children showed some tiredness, hunger, laced over happiness from an afternoon outdoors. The woman on the bench kept reading, but now the breeze was a little too cold, the shadows a little too distracting on the page, and she'd get to the end and realize she had only been thinking about what she saw on the artist's page -- surely it wasn't what she thought she saw, was it? -- but she couldn't really know, might never know for sure. It was probably time to go home, make something to eat.

The woman went home, made something to eat. Took a shower and poured some wine, ready to try the book again, now from the couch in the lamplight. But instead she only opened the page and saw the park. So she hesitated, grabbed a sheet of blank paper (which took her a moment to find, for all the paper she had in the apartment, none seemed to be blank) and picked up a pencil with determination, poised to make a mark and stopped. Looked up. Only the clock was ticking, and beside her, that same ocean was visible through the glass leading to her balcony. She looked out into the sea beyond the town and could see quite a bit of the waves, the sleeping sailboats, in the moonlight. And she squinted her eyes, tried to look out as far as she could but the never-ending lapping blackness of the sky and the water only melted out and away. She stood and pressed her nose to the glass (too chilly, it had become, to stand out on the balcony) and she tried to see farther. Tried to see the sea.

Finally she turned around and picked her book back up. Stopped every once in a while to look at the blank paper and the pencil, thinking of the blackness and everything that could be, out there, and she was certain of what the artist must have been drawing.

X, Y, Z

Luke was depressed again. He laid in bed while the morning started and regretted only having closed the shade halfway last night. Under the blankets, he rolled onto his stomach, willed his eyes shut though by now he was clearly awake.

What was the point of it all? (You're so original Luke. That's the question of the day.)

At least he didn't need to go to work, or maybe that was only lucky for The Universe. The one outside of him. Because in bed it was just Luke, Luke and a pile of unsubstantiated, unnecessary misery.

Well, fuck 'em. Sigh.

His face breaks and crunches inwards but he stays still. He is clutching the corners of the pillow underneath his head.

Why do I feel feeling x (all alone), feeling y (ill), and feeling z (driftwood)?

X and y were getting old, seemed a little cruel anyway, for returning so often, striking from anywhere till Luke sought out the bed, his room and the solitude to face them like the sniveling man he was. Z though, z was approachable, almost friendly. Z was already in the day by day, familiar to any young person who'd ever given more than half a damn about

Life. Gah. What was he doing with his life? What could he do with his life? Why did it matter, anyway?

Always pragmatic, Luke decided to try and sort z out.

Well, he was living, comfortably by most standards in the house he rented with his best friend since college, Mark. His job was not great, or maybe it was – no sometimes it was. But most of the time, Luke was bored. He was in sales. Looking for a nobler calling? No, not really, though if it should strike him, he might take a second glance. He'd always admired his friends that went to medical school – not for their ambition or hard work, but for their passion, so to speak. To think one could do something significant in this world, to have a whole life mapped out by what in all measures was a solid plan, trusting that this path was right.

Right? What did that even mean, for anyone? No one could really know, could they? Luke had rolled to his side by now, had been staring at a point on the wood panels of his wall concentrating and not seeing. Now he reached under his mattress which was on the floor without frame or box spring, and pulled out the knife he kept there, a small paring knife. For a moment, he handled it, passed it back and forth between his hands. He rolled onto his back, feeling its weight and contours. Delicate was his touch, like he might be stroking a woman if one were in his bed.

There was no right or wrong, of this Luke was sure. But it didn't matter, so much. That wasn't the question really, and far too often it seemed to muddy the waters of Figuring It Out, even Holden knew that.

The traffic was picking up outside now, with the light. Mark was awake; Luke could hear him in kitchen, making coffee no doubt. Luke loved coffee, pictured putting on pants and going downstairs – but only for a second. Matters at hand, he looked into the knife, which was gray. The room was gray, everywhere the sun did not stream, which was a little less by the minute.

No point really, Luke thought, looking at the knife in his hand. He'd laced his fingers over-under-over, undid them, redid them. Makes no difference if I'm here or there, if anyone is here or there. Aren't we all just a blip on the radar. The tea kettle beneath him screamed.

I'm so tired, thought Luke.

I'm so x, y, and z. And now he had the paring knife in a grip, a pose like a horror movie stabber would take, in miniature.

So goddamn – he rolled over to his stomach, to the middle of the bed, and plunged the knife into the electrical outlet above the mattress – x – the shock made him shake, his hand burned, clutched hard and he let go.

He picked the knife back up and plunged again – y – and this time he felt fuzz, like he intimately knew each electron running along his skin.

And z! The last time, throwing in the paring knife, singed. A distant snapping noise floated up from downstairs, Mark's muffled fuck.

The knife was scorched, dark gray, and Luke left it on the mattress. Got up – wait, he felt weak – ok now he got up, put on pants. He bounces down the stairs, meets Mark coming up from the basement, who says – hey man, I reset the breaker, fucking electrical went out in this house again. We really need to call Antoinette about this, I mean, I was making toast.

Luke nods and passes him, entering the kitchen. Don't worry dude, he says, Look, the light's back on the toaster and I'm going to make us pancakes.