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The Troubles of A GodThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by erik grossman | |
| Friday, 02 May 2008 | |
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Share it:      by Erik Grossman Bruce was from a long time ago. He was the first, you know, the first one I ever saw naked. I was only seventeen at the time. The closest I had come to having sex was with myself. See, I got my G.E.D. early on so I didn't have the typical high-school experience. It seemed to me that the best way to become an artist wasn't through math or science, but through practice. How did he look? He looked good. Not like you, that's not to say you don't look good. You're more rugged than he was. I remember sitting there, wildly uncomfortable, staring at an empty canvas and a naked Bruce. That's when things got awkward. Everyone started to paint, like machines pre-set to portrait this naked man. But me? I just sat there, transfixed on his sculpted figure: his tight abs, his firm thighs, and his bulging biceps. I remember trying not to giggle, praying to God he wouldn't catch me staring at his penis. But I think in a weird way we connected, both of us motionless, wondering when this was going to end. Don't forget posture please, I'm just getting the outline done so I need you to look proud with your chest out and back straight. Anyway, five minutes passed before I lifted the brush. I kept finding excuses to delay my first stroke. What color should I choose? It's too cold in here, my hand is shaking. Why do Bruce's nipples face the ground? It was probably because his body was formed by God himself. Jesus, now is not the time for fantasizing. Paint, damn you! Paint! I started looking around at other people's canvases, hoping for a clue at where to start. It didn't help, there was no unilateral decision - some started at the head, others at the feet, and one woman started with his groin. I couldn't fault her though, it was rather tempting. Damnit Bruce, why couldn't you have gotten sick that day? Then I had a sudden stroke of genius. I thought that if I could get him to fidget, or move somehow, they would have to cancel the class. It would have screwed up everyone's work, they would have had to start from scratch and there wasn't enough time for that. Turn your head a little to the left, please. Thanks. So where was I? Oh yeah, my master plan. I'm not ashamed to say that I was better looking at seventeen than I am now. The problem was, I never really learned to flirt. I batted my eye lashes, licked my lips, and did everything short of getting on my knees for him. What? Yeah...I was trying to get his "attention". It was all I could think of. How else could I get him to move? Anyway, I got frustrated because he wasn't responding...at all. He kept staring into space, he wouldn't look at me or anyone for that matter. It's like he became a statue, I couldn't tell if he was breathing. You're a lot like him, you know? If I were anyone else I'd have to feel your pulse to make sure you were real. You even look like him a little bit, just smaller, and more rugged. I hope that didn't make you uncomfortable. Lower your arms a little please, and relax your muscles. Thanks. So after failing to move Bruce, I gave up and just stared at him. My Lord, he was a fine man. I wanted to pounce on him rather than paint him. The light above me flickered and shook me back into reality and I realized the teacher was headed my way. I couldn't let her see an empty canvas, so out of desperation I finally started to paint. I'm using the same color for you. It simplifies everything, you know? Instead of being distracted by some bright color, people will see you, and only you. That wasn't my goal with Bruce, back then I just needed a color. You can uncross your legs if you want. So anyway, I took my brush and started to reshape Bruce. I started by thinning out his arms, re-sculpting his face, and made his chest less...perfect. That's when the teacher came around and raised an unconvinced eyebrow at me. I couldn't blame her. I was supposed to be painting Bruce. I dropped my head into my hands and wondered if I had made the right choice to drop out and pursue art. While some of my friends were getting ready to graduate, I was in a room filled with failed artists trying to paint a naked man. I wondered if I would become like them, forty and still attending introductory art classes. I tried to be positive, I fantasized showing off my future showcases to critics around the world and receiving world recognition for my "brilliance". Even with that in my mind, I couldn't help but think I had made a tragic mistake...maybe I should have listened to my parents. I decided to resume painting to keep myself from crying about the whole thing like a little girl. I painted Bruce the way I wanted to, I didn't care about the teacher. If this was going to be my work I was going to do it my way. As time passed, I started to forget about him, you know? My attention was on the guy I had created. As far as I was concerned, Bruce could have left the room. What? No, you can't leave. Nice try. Want to hear something weird? When I was painting that man, I felt like God. Born from my touch, I had created him in the image of Bruce. By the time I was done, Bruce was gone. Only me and my progeny remained. Don't get me wrong, Bruce was there. He was still on that stool stuck in that smug little pose of his. But all I could see were his arms, his face, and legs. Bruce, the man, the individual, was gone. So too are you. I'm not sure why or how, but after Bruce my subjects seem to fade. Your body still remains, but only as a basis for the man I make to replace you. But now I think I understand what Gods and Creators go through. Willingly erasing something to be replaced with an improved copy. That's evolution, isn't it? I want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry you've had to be replaced. I'm sorry that you will cease to exist in the eyes of a Creator. You don't seem to mind. Maybe you don't fully understand. You see, it has already happened. Even as I talk to you now, you seem to have disappeared. Copyright 2008 erik grossman |
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