Filipe Bergson
2016
Borrow, To Create
I’m the best, a writer, an artist; creator. I’m the best, but I wasn’t always. I was the best. Then the worst. Now I’m the best again learning from the greatest.
Mikey threw crayons at Kirsty. Annie was crying, and Bobby kept asking questions.
“But why is the sky blue?”
“Because there’s water in the sky.”
“Why is water in the sky?”
“Because the sun and the water are in love.”
“But why?”
“Because, what if the sky was green?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But it is, and the grass is blue.”
“But why?”
“Because.”
“Why?”
“Because the grass is blue, and the sky is green.”
I brought out snacks, and collected their papers. The works were wide and varied. The marks fantastic, wondrous. I had forgotten the freedom of not knowing, not understanding. There was a booger on Georgie’s.
I filed the pictures away, and sat with my muses, my life line to creativity. They were contemplating the distinctions between doggies and kitties. A profound conversation over glasses of milk and animal cracker colosseums.
Annie pitted walrus against tiger. Tiger preemptively attacked from behind latching on to walrus’s crumbly back, cookie flesh flying. Tiger dove into its meal. Its face grinding away in the process.
In a white lagoon an eagle was being waterboarded by Bobby, dunk, repeat, dunk, repeat, and off with eagle’s head.
“Kitty’s have little fur paws and are alls warmz and fuzzier,” stated Kirsty shoving a lion in Mikey’s face.
“But doggie’s run around doing silly stuff, and play with you,” Rebutted Mikey attacking Kirsty’s lion, cracker wolf in hand.
“Kitty’s!”
“Doggie’s!” Raised the colosseum uproar from spectators.
Annie joined in fist pumping a headless, tailless tiger in the air, “Kitty, kitty, kitty!”
“Doggie, doggie, doggie!”
Bobby looked up from his torture chamber, milkstache on his face. He suddenly rose up, climbing on the table, spilling his milk. Eagle guts running in milky streams.
“I’m a t-rex!” Shouted Bobby standing atop the table, arms tucked to his side. Crushing lifeless animals underfoot, he flung back his head, shacking his curly, brown mane. “Rawr!”
Annie joined in, climbing the table. “Grrrr,” she growled.
Mikey sat mystified, “But the cookies…”
Kirsty started crying.
This is what I miss. The unknown, inexplicable spontaneity to do one thing and suddenly another. No reason or process, just basic instinct. React, do, repeat. “Why” doesn’t matter. Just create; experience whatever it is that is here and now.
Nap time, the four muses slept soundly as monsters after a full days raging through towns of terrified peasants. In the next room I walked over and sat on the couch flipping on the news.
“Estranged artist Michel Bourbane has made a recent comeback from obscurity after not being able to sell a single piece in 7 years. Bourbane has sold 10 pieces in the past 6 months to various art aficionados, galleries, and museums. This come back has everyone on edge. What might the resurrected artist do next? Now more on the serial kidnapping story with anchor Richie Pebble. Richie.”
“Thanks, Kristanna. Yes, the kidnapper has struck again. This time in the state of New Hampshire, and as before the previous kidnapped children were returned to their families the same time as the recent kidnapping took place. Here we have an interview with Stanley one of the returned children.”
The video cut to a close up of a child about 4 years old playing with several wooden blocks.
A voice off screen was interviewing the child, “Stanley, do you remember where you were last week?”
“I was in a dream, wif colorful walls, and playtime all the time, and snacks, and this funny girl Frankie. She always want to switch clothes wif me.”
“Was there anyone else with you?”
“Yep, there was Joy, Fisher, and the funny man.”
“The funny man?”
“Ya, he was the one who brought us snacks and stuff he would always say weird stuff like the grass was blue and the sky was green.”
“What did he look like?”
“He had different hair everyday, someday’s pink, sometimes blue. I liked the green one’s, they matched his eyes. He always wore crazy glasses. I like the golden star one’s. I asked him if I could have them. He said sure. He has green eyes. I have the glasses in my pocket.”
The boy then proceeded to pull a pair of gold, plastic sunglasses in the shape of stars from his pocket and put them on his face. The video then cut back to the news anchor.
“We urge parents to keep their children in sight at all times, victims seem to vary in age from three to five years old. The latest children to have disappeared are Robert, Ann, Kirsty, and Michael.”
I shut off the the tv and turned my attention to the celling. I was wearing the rainbow wig today with the bright orange, psychedelic framed glasses. Annie really liked the rainbow wig. I turned my head and looked at what just might be my master piece.
A landscape, green sky, blue grass; children running throughout the acrylic strokes. Children jumping, eating, crying, pretending. Pretending to be princesses, astronauts, frogs, and dragons.
“They’ll find it when I’m dead and gone,” I thought to myself.
I stood up and walked over to a row of file cabinets which housed a wealth of inspiration.