Twenty years on, I lay half naked on the cold marble floor, staring up at the ceiling. It was so cold. Maybe if I could stand physical coldness like this I’d be able to confront any cold reality. Coldness would become normal. Acceptable. Permissible. The joint was reaching its end. My hand moved slowly to my mouth and I inhaled one last time before placing the butt on the floor. I got up too quickly and the head rush blinded me for a few seconds.
It was time for a post-Sunday-joint treat: peanut butter, banana and chocolate sandwich with a cold vanilla shake to be enjoyed in front of the TV. Stupid TV. Mindless. But somehow far more mesmerising after two joints. The moving images and sounds became hypnotic, the tastes, textures and smell of the food so pleasurable. Why couldn’t this be a constant state? Today nothing mattered. Sunday: the day of rest. The day of forgetting everything. Almost forgetting.
I licked chocolate spread off my fingers, got up off the sofa and went back for seconds. I made another sandwich. Neat. Clean. I placed it on a small white plate and set it down on the marble worktop. Clink. I turned around to look out of the panoramic windows: walls of glass that looked out at the city. San Diego looked hazy today. There was less contrast in the summer sky, the buildings and the mountains. The sun was shining, but everything looked faded. I placed both hands against the vast cold glass, pressed my cheek to it. Far below, the city was alive and moving as always. The cars, the people, the rush. If I could just step through and out from behind this solid invisible object and fly out over the city, far into the mountains. If I could just fly. Fly wherever. I looked back down at the streets below. What would it be like to fall all that way? I had a sudden spasm of vertigo and pulled back from the window. I turned back around to look at the room. The kitchen, the diner, the living room: all mine. All one huge cold space bordered by these glass walls that looked out onto the world. The sky that made me long to fly. And as I stood there, I had a rare moment of peace. Taking in this cold heartless lie of a home, I suddenly felt a temporary peace.
I turned on the stereo and with a slow sadness I danced around to an indulgently melancholic playlist. Round and round like a ghost. Barely there. Before I knew it, it was dark outside. More television. A film. And then goodnight. Sundays were all about this. Pottering about. Achieving nothing. Going nowhere. Seeing no one. Sleep. The dreamworld. Disappearing behind my closed eyes into nothingness. Oblivion. Ceasing to exist for a while. My comfort zone.
*
Monday. Good morning. Go on, knock ’em dead Silvia. Show the world you mean business. I pouted in front of the bathroom mirror. Red lipstick; a little joke I played with myself and on the world. I flipped the tube over and read the base: ‘Poppy Red’. I could remember beautiful fields of opium poppies from my childhood. My memories were nothing to smile about but I breathed in and grinned at the mirror. Now was not the time to think about any of that. If I wore nothing else, I had to wear the red lipstick. Walking through the city streets, would it dazzle them? Would I stand out? Would they think, wow, she’s special? I didn’t know, but I would have liked them to. I wanted to be the muse for a change. I ran my fingers through my long black hair, detangling it all the way down to my waist, and I stared into my blue eyes. Bluer than the ocean, my mother would say. I picked up the black eyeliner and ran a long line of it above each eye. At least you knew what you were getting with poppy red lipstick and jet-black eyeliner. Real red. Proper black.
I turned on the tap and scrubbed behind my nails. My hands were getting grubby and dry with all the chalk and charcoal these days. I rubbed moisturiser into them, paying particular attention to the long scar on my right hand. It ran from the underside of my thumb to just above my wrist. The scar. Another reminder. I strutted to the supermarket, past the flower stall, where the scent of oriental lilies and freesias was especially intense today, past the Jewish bakery, its deliciously sweet aroma making my mouth water, past the cinema, and past the same homeless guy who always stared at me as if he knew me. I stopped to look up at the sky for a brief moment, the tall buildings looming over me. I closed my eyes for a second as I breathed it all in. Hurry up. It’s Monday. There are things to get done. Must get supplies from the shop and then get back, eat, and prepare materials for today’s sessions. Max was coming at noon. Ah. Max. And who was after him? I checked my diary. Arthur.
Today would be a success. I could feel it. Today I felt a huge drive to create. I suddenly felt impatient. I felt I could rush home, get a huge slab of paper and create a masterpiece. To feel inspiration when you’re nowhere near the drawing board is easy enough. When you’re finally there with the charcoal in your hand, sometimes you feel like you’re forcing yourself to do the work.
But other times you’re lucky, and the most beautiful wave of inspiration hits when you’re sitting in front of the blank piece of paper. You can sit there for hours in a state of total flow, disconnected from the world you usually inhabit – the world of worries, unnecessary thoughts and emotions. Time does not exist and the only thing is this moment. Here. The paper, the markings, my hand, the charcoal, the process. I am not drawing. Drawing is happening. And the world as I usually know it no longer seems real at all. Sometimes I feel like I live for those moments. Sometimes I feel like they are trying to tell me something.
I was looking forward to drawing both Arthur and Max today. Their bodies inspired me – both in their own separate ways. But there’d be no sex today, I was feeling far too vulnerable. I couldn’t be bothered with that game today.