BEND REALITY (Queen of Blades)
Tuesday, July 05, 2005.
Madness. Pure madness.
A train, her ride home, 10 PM. It was dark, it was hot, the electric light refusing to stay on, the only other passengers a pair of lovebirds, oblivious to the rest of the world. The empty seats cut up with switchblades, obscure writings covering their worn-down synthetics. It was just another evening, another ride home. Thoughts, things, ideas shaped themselves in her mind and carried on, following the rhythm of the train's metal wheels. The pure madness of every little detail in the world contrasted against casuality, another reason for her trying to bend reality with artistic interpretation.
She sighed.
For Delilah Wells art was not some peace-seeking process, it wasn't meditation, not some half-witted attempt at public recognition. For her, art was RELEASE. It was edgy, sharp, it was tearing its way out of her fingertips, controlled the motions of her hands, put itself on a canvas and smacked her in the ovaries until she made some more. She was the absolute master of visuals. A genious of the macabre, her every nightmare recorded in watercolors.
The train came to a stop, doors slid open, she walked out. Delilah was a bit chubby, something she didn't particulary care about, although sometimes she thought of it as yet another reason she was 27 and single. As if her temper wasn't enough. She got home without incidinet - this, afer all, was a pretty safe part of town. Delilah lived on the 2nd floor, her huge apartment her studio. A phone on the floor, an ashtray by it, fastfood bags in the kitchen, and her paintings. Her art. Diabolic, abstract images of dread, eyes of the dead staring back at her from where she drew them, her take on horror imprisoned in her sketchbooks.
The phone rang.
If it wouldn't have, maybe there would have been no need for pain.
If it wouldn't have, maybe nobody would have had to die.
Delilah lit a cigarette and sat on the floor, looking at the phone. She took a few puffs, thinking whether she should answer or not. She knew who it was, and she knew that this was probably bad news. Yes, she was good. She was better than good. But even the best are rejected, and her art, her life, were the proof of that. It's hard to find acceptance when what you're looking for has nothing to do with acceptance. When what you're looking for is RELEASE. She reached for the phone.
"Amazing! Simply amazing," said an excited female voice on the other end of the line. It was Sandra, an art critic she met at some convention a few weeks ago who asked her to give a finished watercolor piece of hers for, funky word, analysis.
"What is?"
"Your painting, sweetheart. The more I look at it... Wow. Just friggin' wow."
"Eh... Thanks."
"Don't mention it, honey! I'm buying."
"You're what?"
"I want to buy it off you. I showed it to hubby, but what does he know? I'll give you five grand, and maybe we'll see if we can arrange a little exhibition for you. I've got contacts, sweetheart."
"Of course! I mean, thank you. Thank you... Seriously."
"Don't mention it! So tomorrow at 9? Hubby'll make breakfast. Scrambled eggs, he's an expert."
"Sure, sounds fine."
"Alright, gotta go. Love."
She hang up, wondering if this Sandra person was always so personal with everyone. But more than that, she was wondering how she ever got so lucky. Five thousand dollars. Five THOUSAND for the first painting she'll ever sell. Delilah stood up, searched for the first set of paints she ever got, the one she got from her grandma when she was still a kid, opened her sketchbook on the very last page and started painting, switched herself to a different realm, a world beyond our senses. A world of raw emotion. That world, channeled through her brush, turned out to be a grassy plain, with the sun rays playfully shining through the clouds, everything so childish. Everything so happy.
She was smiling, and her new world was smiling back at her.
The next morning it was raining, a light, tickling, summer rain, as if even the skies themselves shared Delilah's optimism. She caught a taxi - hell, she could afford it now. She was free now, free from her shameful work at Starbucks, free from her bills, free to create. After about half an hour, she was there. Tollington Street 65. The door was ajar. What Delilah would see there would forever change her life.
Some scars run deeper than the flesh.
Some scars deform the soul.
These scars are the scars of guilt.
The intricate details of the blades woven into a ball of steel, each sharp edge eager to taste human bone, a parade of death on a black background. When she drew them, clean, shiny, lethal, they were almost too sexy to seem dangerous. Now, they were covered in blood. Same canvas, different painting. Blood on metal, real blood. Human blood. The swords danced with joy when they were separating Sandra Malloy's eyelids from her face, silently screamed when they cut the toes off her husband. Delilah's painting came to life, making a painting of its own, Sandra and Robert Malloy for their watercolors, they splashed the flat with mutilated tissue, skin, and brains. They dissected their soon-to-be owners, left not a single piece of flesh unscathed, and jumped back into the canvas, a prison no more.
It was winter, four months after the terrible, supernatural tragedy of Tollington Street 65, four months after Delilah, the queen of blades, ripped her horrific creation to shreds, after she set her place on fire, letting every other ever-so-precious work of her perish in the flames. Even that quick painting of a sun-filled grassland, that momentary capture of joy. Joy was dead. Everything was black now. Through these four months, she did her best to stay away from watercolors, pencils, inks, from anything that would make her a killer once again. But the passion was there. Passion was now getting a hold of her once again, seeking release, wanting to be freed. She was standing in front of railroad tracks, middle of nowhere, the roar of the coming locomotive closer and closer. She stood on her knees. Closer and closer. It's speed, it's weight, almost surreal. Closer. She put her hands across the rail and closed her eyes.
Passion can be damn hard to kill.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005.
Madness. Pure madness.
A train, her ride home, 10 PM. It was dark, it was hot, the electric light refusing to stay on, the only other passengers a pair of lovebirds, oblivious to the rest of the world. The empty seats cut up with switchblades, obscure writings covering their worn-down synthetics. It was just another evening, another ride home. Thoughts, things, ideas shaped themselves in her mind and carried on, following the rhythm of the train's metal wheels. The pure madness of every little detail in the world contrasted against casuality, another reason for her trying to bend reality with artistic interpretation.
She sighed.
For Delilah Wells art was not some peace-seeking process, it wasn't meditation, not some half-witted attempt at public recognition. For her, art was RELEASE. It was edgy, sharp, it was tearing its way out of her fingertips, controlled the motions of her hands, put itself on a canvas and smacked her in the ovaries until she made some more. She was the absolute master of visuals. A genious of the macabre, her every nightmare recorded in watercolors.
The train came to a stop, doors slid open, she walked out. Delilah was a bit chubby, something she didn't particulary care about, although sometimes she thought of it as yet another reason she was 27 and single. As if her temper wasn't enough. She got home without incidinet - this, afer all, was a pretty safe part of town. Delilah lived on the 2nd floor, her huge apartment her studio. A phone on the floor, an ashtray by it, fastfood bags in the kitchen, and her paintings. Her art. Diabolic, abstract images of dread, eyes of the dead staring back at her from where she drew them, her take on horror imprisoned in her sketchbooks.
The phone rang.
If it wouldn't have, maybe there would have been no need for pain.
If it wouldn't have, maybe nobody would have had to die.
Delilah lit a cigarette and sat on the floor, looking at the phone. She took a few puffs, thinking whether she should answer or not. She knew who it was, and she knew that this was probably bad news. Yes, she was good. She was better than good. But even the best are rejected, and her art, her life, were the proof of that. It's hard to find acceptance when what you're looking for has nothing to do with acceptance. When what you're looking for is RELEASE. She reached for the phone.
"Amazing! Simply amazing," said an excited female voice on the other end of the line. It was Sandra, an art critic she met at some convention a few weeks ago who asked her to give a finished watercolor piece of hers for, funky word, analysis.
"What is?"
"Your painting, sweetheart. The more I look at it... Wow. Just friggin' wow."
"Eh... Thanks."
"Don't mention it, honey! I'm buying."
"You're what?"
"I want to buy it off you. I showed it to hubby, but what does he know? I'll give you five grand, and maybe we'll see if we can arrange a little exhibition for you. I've got contacts, sweetheart."
"Of course! I mean, thank you. Thank you... Seriously."
"Don't mention it! So tomorrow at 9? Hubby'll make breakfast. Scrambled eggs, he's an expert."
"Sure, sounds fine."
"Alright, gotta go. Love."
She hang up, wondering if this Sandra person was always so personal with everyone. But more than that, she was wondering how she ever got so lucky. Five thousand dollars. Five THOUSAND for the first painting she'll ever sell. Delilah stood up, searched for the first set of paints she ever got, the one she got from her grandma when she was still a kid, opened her sketchbook on the very last page and started painting, switched herself to a different realm, a world beyond our senses. A world of raw emotion. That world, channeled through her brush, turned out to be a grassy plain, with the sun rays playfully shining through the clouds, everything so childish. Everything so happy.
She was smiling, and her new world was smiling back at her.
The next morning it was raining, a light, tickling, summer rain, as if even the skies themselves shared Delilah's optimism. She caught a taxi - hell, she could afford it now. She was free now, free from her shameful work at Starbucks, free from her bills, free to create. After about half an hour, she was there. Tollington Street 65. The door was ajar. What Delilah would see there would forever change her life.
Some scars run deeper than the flesh.
Some scars deform the soul.
These scars are the scars of guilt.
The intricate details of the blades woven into a ball of steel, each sharp edge eager to taste human bone, a parade of death on a black background. When she drew them, clean, shiny, lethal, they were almost too sexy to seem dangerous. Now, they were covered in blood. Same canvas, different painting. Blood on metal, real blood. Human blood. The swords danced with joy when they were separating Sandra Malloy's eyelids from her face, silently screamed when they cut the toes off her husband. Delilah's painting came to life, making a painting of its own, Sandra and Robert Malloy for their watercolors, they splashed the flat with mutilated tissue, skin, and brains. They dissected their soon-to-be owners, left not a single piece of flesh unscathed, and jumped back into the canvas, a prison no more.
It was winter, four months after the terrible, supernatural tragedy of Tollington Street 65, four months after Delilah, the queen of blades, ripped her horrific creation to shreds, after she set her place on fire, letting every other ever-so-precious work of her perish in the flames. Even that quick painting of a sun-filled grassland, that momentary capture of joy. Joy was dead. Everything was black now. Through these four months, she did her best to stay away from watercolors, pencils, inks, from anything that would make her a killer once again. But the passion was there. Passion was now getting a hold of her once again, seeking release, wanting to be freed. She was standing in front of railroad tracks, middle of nowhere, the roar of the coming locomotive closer and closer. She stood on her knees. Closer and closer. It's speed, it's weight, almost surreal. Closer. She put her hands across the rail and closed her eyes.
Passion can be damn hard to kill.
幻術
