Never Let Them Define You

THINKING THINGS THROUGH

"Why are you making that smug face?" asks Marco.

"What? It's not smug, no, it's nothing, really."

"Well, you seem like you're plotting something."

"So accusational," she scoffs. "You should be a lawyer." She gets up from the couch and walks to the Picasso painting. "You think Picasso was a gemini?"

"What?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to say something to get your attention. Now, what do you think is the point of making a point?"

"To change people's minds?"

"Why is that a question? No, tell me what you really think."

He sighs and looks up for a moment. "To grab people's hearts."

"Ooh, I like that. I think it's about marking your place in history."

"Why do you say that?"

"Time is relative, ever-changing, and hunkering down on your opinion is like saying, 'I lived in this time and I believed in this cause.' It makes you monumental in a tiny way. Although, monuments are pretty tiny too if you think about it. Like, I can't say which side of the civil war I was on, although I would have been pretty stupid to be a confederate, but I have no place to say because I wasn't there."

"I see what you're saying...it's funny how scared some people get when it comes to putting their foot down."

"I don't know if it's funny, I think it's more of a sign of dreadfully low self-esteem and neglectful parents."

He lets out a stifled laugh.

"That's funny to you?"

"What can I say? I stand by my point."

She straddles him and pecks his lips. "And that's why I love you." She crawls back out of his grasp, then grabs her notepad and jumps on the couch beside him. "I wrote down that song we sang."

"Oh, nice, you remembered it?"

"Yeah, after some struggling; there were a few lines that took a couple hours to pop back in the ol' noggin. God, I sound like an old southerner."

"Don't worry, I like old southerners."

"Really? What is it you like so much about them?"

"They tend to have quite excellent beards, I've heard."

"Have you ever even been to the south?"

"Tentatively."

"What does that even mean?"

"I have no idea really, but no, I haven't been to the south."

"Then let me make my stereotypes in peace."

"Don't worry, I have no problem with them, since I have no frame of reference."

She flips to the page with the lyrics and a small sketch beside them. "I drew a...uh, never mind, forget it, it's terrible."

"That's code for, 'it's great!' right?"

"What? No! Why would I be so contradictive?"

"Okay, show it then."

She looks aways and winces sharply as she holds the drawing up to his face. A sketch of a waterfall flows down the side of the page, with magical, giant butterflies fluttering in front of it, and a beating heart sits in the middle of the image. The water breaks as it hits the heart and parts around it.

"It's beautiful."

"And that's code for, 'it's disgusting!' right?"

"Ha. Ha. It's not code for anything; I don't speak in two tongues like you."

"I have one tongue just like you."

"But the way you use it is so tricky."

"It's not my fault words fall off my tongue so effortlessly. Sometimes, I say things just because they sound good; it's not a crime."

"They sound good or they make you sound good?"

"It doesn't make a difference as long as it sounds good."

"That's very industry of you to say."

She gasps. "Oh God, you're right; what has become of me?" She laughs. "No, I'm just kidding, we're here to make money, right?"

"The purpose of life."

What's the use of that? To suck our souls and leave us dry beside the road, God, you don't understand. This yearning for earnings is burning me out- "Song!" She slips her pencil out of the spiral coil of the notepad, flips the page, and scrawls furiously.

"What's it about?"

"Shh!"

"Just blurt it out-"

"Money!" She stops after several lines, then holds the pencil tip up to her lips, and looks up at the ceiling.

He peers over at what she's written so far, which she responds to with a glaring side-eye. "I think-"

"Don't think! It's not done yet, not even ready for criticism." She continues to scrawl.

"Well, art is never really done."

She stops the pencil. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think art has like a finish line or something?"

"Well, I mean you put on the show and the show is over."

"What about the next 20 showings or the rewrites of the show? Nothing is done or decided, so art must be criticized on all levels to ensure deep satisfaction. Here's an example: what if you died while making this? Would people be able to enjoy all the work you've done so far or would you have to "finish" before it would be "good?" What if someone has to leave part way through it? Will they still be happy with their experience? They say that true art comes easy."

"Maybe I've misunderstood art then."

"Maybe you've misunderstood the world."

"What do you mean?"

"I think...you think that people expect a lot more from you than they actually do. All they want is you, plain and simple; and you're the only thing getting in the way of it being plain or simple."

"Huh...well, what do I do about the whole overthinking situation then?"

"You just have to commit yourself completely; wake up everyday, make a routine, figure shit out, be punctual...you have to live in the grace of your own essence."

"I'll pretend to know what that means."

"Just live life by the punches, not the rounds."

"Hmm..." She looks at the Picasso painting again. "Do you think he was living by the punches?"

He laughs. "Well, clearly he was doing something right; I mean, his work's in your living room."

"You're right...you know what? You were right about everything."