I don't know, we went to the art museum.
All these days, for months, and years, now, they are all the same day and sometimes I miss the life I knew. Shows and friends and the fire, but I'm an isolationist, I think I thrive in solitude. These days of unending same are nothing to me. Sit in the dark bedroom. Write. Paint. Sometimes pick up the guitar, and sometimes watch a show I love, but I don't need to do or be anything. I thrive in solitude.
I tell myself, anyway.
I've been practicing waiting out my sentence. First in Florida, then in Glens Falls, and again here, in Austin. These days of unending same, they mean nothing to me. They are just ticking seconds. Flipping by unnoticed until they eventually are gone.
They were maddening to you.
I understand.
"Let's go to the Blanton," you said yesterday.
"Okay, sounds good."
And we did. We drove there in the morning and parked in the parking garage. It was complimentary parking and we found a space on the second level and walked down. The grounds were under construction, and to accommodate it the entrance to the museum had shifted like a river but we made our way inside.
You paid my ticket. I didn't ask you to, I didn't expect you to, but you did.
"Thank you," I said.
"No problem."
We went to the contemporary section first. I'm a fan of skill, sure, but contemporary wings are always where the heart lies. And what is skill without heart?
Incredible sprawling displays of injustice and sadness and heartbreak and vengeance and I stood with my hands in my pockets staring, reading, seeing. Taking a few breaths at each of the pieces I didn't care for but trying to find the beauty in. Three times as long in awe of the ones I did care for, unable to express what made these stand out to me beyond an emotional resonance I found myself failing to contain.
People shuffled around me. Around us. Here and there. In they come, out they go. We stick close by each other. Like a kid holding opposing magnets together.
I try not to think about it.
In a room with the lights off and two videos displaying closeups of two people on opposing sides of the room telling one story of a tornado, we sit on a bench and after a moment you hold my hand. I don't know what to make of it, but I am thankful for the acknowledgement and attention and vulnerability. I'm so used to, well, you know. It catches me off guard.
We continue on.
In the classical wing, the wing of portraits of the long dead and wealthy. Men in naval jackets and women with one breast out and fruit laying carelessly around, a group of loud people infect the moment. A man and two women and three children and for all of the peace in that place five seconds of it was too much and we rushed through the wing. Past the Caravaggio inspired darkness, though they are all among my favorites. Past the later renaissance religious iconography. Past the 16 and 1700's and out.
I look back at them and the phrase "Top Five Places to Visit in Austin" pops into my head and I've been doing my best to fight my kneejerk disgust in people so I try not to think about that either.
Eventually hunger hits us both and we cruise swiftly through the museum. We've been here before. We got out of the house. We did something today. No loss. Oh, that's nice. Oh I like that one. Okay, let's go. Let's go.
On the way home you want to stop and I buy you food, but I don't get any. We sit on the patio of a co-op and you eat a salad. Then to a gas station and then home. I have a thorn in my side to paint.
I'm constantly ashamed of being an artist. To the point where I won't talk about it when someone asks what I do. I let people find it out, but I feel awful talking about it.
It's not something I've really explored or attempted to get to the bottom of, but, I'm always aware of it. I wish I was someone else. I wish I was happy making a living doing whatever it is people do. "Y'know, I've worked 22 years at the plant. The wife is happy and I'm a good person!" Jesus christ I wish I was built like that.
But I'm not. I'm...
not.
We go home and I set up a space to paint. I hate setting up a space to paint. It all feels temporary and it feels like I am cheapening myself. It feels like a betrayal somehow.
Sometimes I miss the life I knew. Shows and friends and the fire. The space.
You lay down in the other room and I paint and between layers I visit you, but you have headphones in and you held my hand earlier. I don't know what to make of it.
So, I don't know. We went to the art museum and, well, we got out of the house.
