I live alone

1

1

The smudges on the mirror are making it difficult to see. My arm is up above my chest, and my hand forms a fist. Smudges block my view of the angle of my shoulders, which I regularly have difficulty with. Then the tilt of my neck is just as blurry. I back away from the mirror and head to the bathroom for a moist towel. Acrylic paint drys quickly. So my legs stretch over two steps at a time and my feet touch down onto soft carpet. I take a left at the top of the stairs and flip on the bathroom light. I push the door closed slightly and grab a towel that hangs on the back of the door. Then, I turn on the water in the sink and moisten the towel under the faucet. Quickly, I push the bathroom door open and jog down the stairs back to the easel. With two fingers I touch a spot of the canvas I wouldn't mind smudging. I pull my fingers away and look down at them, and they are the same shade of brown as before.

"Damnit,"I whisper.

Though I know it doesn't really matter since this was only the sketch, the initial layer. The mirror is yanked down from its perch on a chair and I watch my hands roughly scrub the smudges off of it. I press harder to remove one smudge in particular. I hold the mirror with one hand and clean with the other, but I press too hard and it slips from my grip. The noise is louder than I anticipated. Shattered glass surrounds my feet. One sliver of glass lands in my paint water creating a small splash of brown water to coat the surrounding floor.

I sigh heavily, annoyed.

This is why I put wood floors in here, so it would be easy to clean.

In some ways, I am very sensible.

There is a broom in the corner that I could use to sweep up the pieces of glass, but then a better idea occurs to me. I grab a paintbrush and dip it in black. While looking back and forth between my bare feet surrounded by glass and the canvas, I paint over my last sketch with a new idea. The sunlight spills more and more over the apartment buildings on my block. Hours pass and I stand still for each one. About 3 hours later I stop and look out the window. I've become decent at estimating the time based on the position of the sun; it appears to be 10am. The painting is now detailed enough for me to complete the rest by memory, but before I move I make sure to capture the sparkle of the glass as it reflects the sunlight.

The glass has been cleaned up and the spilled water as well. The door to my art room stays closed when I am not inside. I believe I do this for privacy.

I change out of my painter's apron and into something business casual. As a young adult, I've had to try hard to develop the adult side of myself—since I already have the young part. I open the cabinets to find something to eat and a box of granola bars falls over. The artist in me has developed much more easily. I grab a granola bar for breakfast and take it to my home office. The office is against the same wall as the art room; one door is the mirror of the other, but they lead to very different ends. The office is on the right. Wearing business casual clothing helps me get into character. At my desk is a desktop computer, a printer that can also fax, and a bulging folder filled with receipts and bills. In gatherings with mature adults—not that I find myself in this position often—I speak about my work as a bookkeeper and my degree in accounting. In gatherings with young adults—again a position I am seldom in—I am an artist. Yet, when visiting my parents I am simply a young adult minus the adult—a young person or perhaps just a child. One person can contain any number of personas. I think of standing surrounded by dressing room mirrors and seeing myself duplicated innumerable times.

Perhaps I will turn that into a painting.

I open the folder and it lands with a thump onto the desk. The work is tedious, but I remain at my desk until I have reviewed every receipt and every bill and recorded everything in an excel document. Then, the adult in me remembers that I should take a shower.

I lean over the tub and turn on the hot and cold water. I shower in lukewarm water to save money. My clothing is discarded on the floor and I step inside the shower. The child in me is too scared to close the curtains. I remember how bright the gray light was against the shadows in the room. The movie was playing on TV late at night and I just couldn't fall asleep. The movie had already begun by the time I landed on the channel. I figured all black and white movies were boring, so it would be the perfect thing to fall asleep to. I curled up with a blanket on the couch. My eyes were drifting shut; intense dialogue couldn't hold my attention, only action and adventure could do that. So I fell asleep. But then I woke up again to a woman in the shower. I didn't understand the use of dramatic shots, couldn't imagine what it could have been building up to. I wanted to know what would happen, so I flopped my sleepy head over to see the screen better. My brain was between dream and reality, so my attention wandered. I was considering the plausibility of a dream I had when a silhouette appeared behind the curtain. All things cozy and dreamlike evaporated the moment I saw the knife.

I don't scream when I'm scared, I freeze. So I layed there silently. I wanted to get away, but I couldn't. I couldn't run because the murder scene woke my mind up, but not my body. I blame it on sleep paralysis. It held my legs down and kept my head still. I stared on as that woman was stabbed. Though I was curious when I saw the blood whether or not it was real. And I waited to see the sharp tip of the knife bury itself deep into the woman's stomach, but it never did. Of course it was fake.

I was intrigued, my interest peaked. I guess I was inspired by that scene. It taught me that art could be violent and ugly. In a different place inside of me I was also terrified. In another place still I was worried I wouldn't get enough sleep to wake up early the next day. I didn't move until she was dead, and I blamed it on sleep paralysis.

So I shower with the door locked and the curtain open. There are paint stains on my thighs that require extra scrubbing to remove. I wipe paintbrushes on my legs when I can't find a rag. Flecks of acrylic paint peel off my skin and land by my feet. The water carries them down the drain. I know the paint could clog the pipes, but I do it anyways. The tub is decorated, unintentionally, with flecks of dry acrylic paint. The marks of oil paint are harder to remove; I have to use plenty of soap to break it down. I try to remember that the oil paint is toxic, but I always find a mark or two somewhere on my body. It must happen accidently. I never remember doing it.

I step out of the tub and grab a towel to wrap around myself. I've lived alone for almost a year now in this secluded area, but I would feel awkward walking around naked. The mirror is all fogged up, but it doesn't matter because I wouldn't recognize myself regardless.

I put on the same clothes I was wearing this morning and try to remember what I would normally do in a day. I graduated last spring, just a few months ago. My time no longer revolves around understanding the federal income tax and business statistics. I wanted to study art, but I didn't know what I would do with it. Painting is the only thing I have done consistently throughout my life. I haven't always been an adult. I haven't always been so lonely. I haven't always listened to the same music.

But I've always been an artist in one way or another.

It's late August, which means this is the last of the warm air for a while. The midwest is always so eager to freeze. I ended up opening all of the windows in the house and sitting on my bed for a few hours. My bedroom window has a good view of the next block over. I'm guilty of people watching around the hours of 3-5pm, when kids get home from school and their parents from work. There are no kids on my block, no adults either. Just older people who don't get out much. I fit right in.

There are kids playing on the street. The sky through the interstices of leaves is something I've yet to paint. Then the guys who cut the grass of the apartment buildings on my block pack up their equipment and head home. I watch the truck drive away and try to picture myself leaving this place as I wipe the drool from my cheek. It occurs to me that I've been sleeping.

I've yet to make sense of my diligence toward work, commitment to art, but laziness in all other regards. I take a picture out the window of the leaves and the sky. The sky is dark. Then I take one of the next block. The people are gone.

Perhaps it's time to start the day.