A Man Who Never Painted
This self-portrait is dated from yesterday, but yesterday I was dead. Today I’m alive because my death and the ensuing time after were dropped in a puddle, the ink smeared and the pages turned back into trees.
The scrivener was called in emergently. “I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s been an accident,” the operator said like a muted car crash. “It’s fine, I’m leaving right now,” the scrivener replied like an amplified soy bean.
The scrivener was high on marijuana and chiefly concerned with finishing before his boss arrived. There was also the matter of a prostitute still at his apartment. When he left ze was sitting on the couch staring at the urn on the mantel with his grandmother’s ashes. “You go ahead, baby,” ze said in a guttural voice, “I’ll stay right here.”
So here I am now, staring at my self-portrait from yesterday with no recollection of yesterday, waiting for someone to catch the scrivener’s error and delete me, again, from history.
(The self-portrait begins to speak…)
“Well, let’s have it. What do you think? You’ve been given a chance to view an artistic rendering of yourself done by your hand while it’s controlled by another man’s mind. So tell me: how true to life am I; how transformative? And least important, do you like me?”
To be honest, I am ready to die again. At first I was scared, but life is so -