Sinister: my sunday ritual: exhaust. cigarettes. public radio.

[Kirsten Kenyon]

  "so you're some kind of walking bar, then?"
  "no.  well...i guess...today.  anyway."  i looked around 
self-consciously.  elizabeth was sitting cross-legged on a bare 
mattress in the corner, her pretty face bearing an expression of 
stern concentration as she carefully bored two holes in the nostrils 
of a plastic doll head.
  my eyes scanned over the edge of the mattress, over the filthy 
concrete floor, over dried paint and pornography, discarded articles 
of clothing, bottles, butts, spoons and puddles of mysterious 
liquids, thick and oily under the harsh track lighting.  moving up 
the wall...massive canvasses, partially-covered, crumbling bricks and 
blueprints, squares of greasy gold paper tacked to the wall with 
electrical tape.  i stopped on a series of photographs.  an emaciated 
boy.  hollow cheeks, bony arms, dark-rimmed eyes and ashy lips.  to 
look at the photos, you might think it was the lighting.  but i've 
seen the boy around, and he looks that way in the sun.  
   "what the fuck is this?"  the shout came from the boy who'd spoken 
to me earlier.  
   a pair of wide blue eyes snapped away from a heated poker game.  
the lips under the eyes moved slightly and muttered "enya."
   the shouter sputtered.  smashed his derby with his palm, flipped 
his cigarette onto the floor...ignoring the four ashtrays within 
comfortable reaching distance.
   easy, mickey.  take it easy.  it's okay...a skinny boy with a 
glistening forehead hopped over the back of the sofa to change the 
music, then vaulted back onto the stained cushion and excitedly 
drummed along on the slab of plywood pretending to be a coffee 
table.  lust for life.  hah.  nearly everything i could see was half-
dead.  at least half. 
   "so, my dear, how about a beverage?"
   elizabeth squeezed the doll head and two narrow streams of smoke 
shot out of its nostrils and slowly dissipated over our heads.  one 
side of the head was crushed. i stared, fascinated, at the grotesque, 
pink baby doll face until elizabeth tilted it back and its long 
eyelashes 
blinked at me.   
   "here, i'll go with you."  she pushed herself to her feet and lit 
a cigarette, which had been helplessly hanging from my lips for 
several minutes.   we cautiously walked across the room, stepping 
over greyish whites and tubes of paint.  batted our way through a 
tattered flag dangling vertically from a leaking pipe.  over a pile 
of blankets...a slab of concrete...someone's bed...a sooty pillow.  
out into the cold.  i ran/skidded/skated across the alley to my car.  
  we returned bearing two small bottles of tonic water and the 
remnant of my bombay sapphire. a boy on the floor looked up from his 
book.  
  "where have you been all my life?"
  "....um...around...."  the strangers laughed. 
  somebody wiped out a few glasses.  a telephone rang. 
  "doorbell!"  someone screeched and rolled over the sofa, gangly 
limbs dancing over everyone's laps to embrace the model who was 
framed in the doorway, slouching under the weight of two jugs of wine 
and a wooden crate of beer.  
   more introductions...it was pointless.  i nodded.  we thought we 
should get going.  back into the cold, into a coffee house that was 
far too full.  off to another, just in time to catch the reverend.  
   "awww we-hell looky here, we got us some purty lil dancin girls, 
lettin it awlllll hang out.  hey there, sweetiepies."
   i wasn't dancing, for once.  well, i held onto elizabeth's hand 
and she twirled under my arm.  but my feet didn't move.  elizabeth 
had never met the reverend before.
   "he looks like a winker," she whispered.  i whispered back that he 
was, and also a drinker.  and fond of pall malls.  the cigarettes. 
    we couldn't find a table.  elizabeth found enough floor space to 
sprawl out on her back.  i sat on a two-by-four balanced on top 
of a radiator. we talked for a bit.  i wondered....maybe.  with the 
art thing.  i realized been going about it all wrong.  the clean 
white gesso, the dropcloths, the eco-friendly turpenoid, the easy-
clean tile floors and that damn dog stepping in everything all the 
time. having a job...being thusly required, each afternoon, to scrub 
the paint out of my hair and my nails and my pores and look 
presentable enough to serve bread to the good people of whitefish 
bay, wisconsin.   now i have this...overwhelming...you know, i'm long 
out of canvas.  but there are wood floors.  lots of empty wall space, 
too.  and newspapers and old t-shirts and cardboard boxes, ceilings 
and a large concrete driveway.  sidewalks.  storefronts.  bell 
towers.  (i'm probably joking.)  no worries.  but...classes start on 
tuesday, and my art school days are over.  i'm going to study 
english.  god knows my grammar needs some serious work. 
   ENOUGH. or more.
  love.  love and sunny sunny sunny weather.
  kirsten 


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