the lightly salted caul didn’t taste too bad – the side-dish of sauteed pickled punks smelt pungent, but he was sure it would be great. the monkey brains drinking establishment was a wonderful discovery, one he hardly credited with being true some days – was it that he was always drunk when he sat down to eat in here?
when sober he was sure he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone how to reach this place – not that he really wanted to share it with anyone. he was glad that he was rarely sober and seemed to be possessed of a rather formidable context dependent memory.
just under the surface of the drink swam the bugbears he had not managed to drown yet – they gathered to themselves all the moments of insecurity he suffered, and they grew bigger and as they increased in size they became hungrier.
he was trying to paint in the hours he was awake but this diversionary expedition to get food was a necessary stepping stone to productivity. when the hunger ravaged him he could hardly string together a thought – he became angry and if he had his knife to hand he might go on prolonged bouts of slashing at his canvases. last week, the alcohol level in his blood particularly high, he had cut, pissed on, and set alight to five works which his dealer had been telling him were the best things he had done in an age – now all that existed of them were the prints of the photographs always taken as a precaution now. he had almost died trying to extinguish the flames but he had not heeded a single warning from any of the many opinionated bastards who it was his misfortune to meet that day.
he started upon the pickled punks and was surprised at how they just came apart with no effort, how they melted on the tongue – they tasted great; he would have to leave a good tip for both the waiter and the chef.
as he finished, paid, and stepped out on the street, the sky gave up brooding and let loose with fury. for a moment, for a small moment, he felt blessed by the call – felt able to dance between the raindrops … and then he sank back down into himself. misery was the best fuel for his brooding nightmare landscapes, for his umbral portraits, for his geometric shatter of abstraction. he sighed, he smiled, he shrugged, he reached his studio’s front door and went inside.

One Response

  1. I enjoyed reading this, Paul.

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