Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Snapshot From His Album
In the yellow-walled living room, he put on a Linton Kwesi Johnson album. I could hear the clink of scissors against china as he chopped marijuana over small bowl. I was in the bathroom, standing over a small sink, splashing water onto my face. In the mirror, I studied the crystalline rivulets as they trailed down my tired skin. On a long thin shelf below the mirror were tooth brushes, toothpaste, incense, an obelisk-shaped ARIA Award, and a syringe half-full of water, blood and heroin. After I dried my face, I put away the bottle of bubble bath and some candles from our night of sex after his gig. I could hear him singing. He had moved to the kitchen and now he was chopping vegetables to pulverise into fresh juice. I tip-toed in to stand behind him, naked, and hold his cock and kiss him while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other with the beat. He smiled absently, relaxed by the combination of music and dope. There was always an energy between us but I couldn't figure out whether it was sexual frisson or plain discomfort. I never got dressed until I was about to leave but I never went back to bed with him once I was up. This morning, like every morning, we sat drinking juice – him clothed, me naked – but I was jittery to leave, to get home, to paint. Often, I left in the middle of the night. I wanted to sleep in my own bed, alone, then get up at dawn and start painting. So I'd creep from his bed without waking him. I knew it hurt his feelings but I didn't care. He did his thing. I just wanted to do mine. Besides, he'd said he wanted a girl who did something. I just wanted someone to understand me, even a little. I was happy that his music was going well back then. When he wasn’t on tour, he could do whatever he felt like – hit on bikini-clad schoolgirls at the beach, skate, get stoned, masturbate. I figured that, if he wanted to spend time with me, he could come and hang out at my studio while I painted. It never really worked out that way.