The honest ink.

Eight years ago I read something about a man named Grace. It moved me so, and I found myself searching for him without realizing.

Grace was my fictitious emotional cherry popper. Prior to him, I had never fallen in love with a fictional character. I was raised to believe that you love the art, not the artist. The music, not the musician. The word, not the writer. You can appreciate them as a vessel, but it goes no further. But Grace, though a product of the printed word, became real in my mind. He wasn’t a character, he was a real person that was out there that this printed word was based upon.

A few years after the first reading, I realized what was happening and I made it stop.

The process that followed was like losing a loved one to death. I suppose the timing was appropriate because that was a period of time in my life when my family, friends, and lovers were dropping like flies.

So, to aid in this process of loss, I started developing ridiculously honest relationships with strangers. Single serving people as Palahniuk put it.

And through time it became something much more than bumping into someone and starting a conversation… I had started writing strangers. I’d pick a random address. (Be it in the local white pages or an online phone book.) I’d write to them about myself, about what was plaguing me that I couldn’t shake, or random thoughts and ideas I couldn’t get out of my head. (Coincidentally, not long ago, I offered this bit to a fellow blogger that I’m rather fond of.)

Through the years I’ve received a lot of responses back. I have a box under my bed with all of these saved letters. Some of the most personal and intimate things a person could ever hear… All because it was completely safe. It was letting go without forgetting. It was the best part about being a human. And that’s all it ever was. So completely perfect. Neatly packaged in white envelopes. Black and blue inks bruising the pages.

Three weeks ago, I sent a letter out to the middle of nowhere Montana.

Saturday, I received a response…

To date, it’s the most moving, the most needed. She was immaculate, gorgeous, and I loved her as any child would love its mother.

Last night, I painted her… The image of what she is in my mind.

I haven’t painted, really painted, in quite some time. Too wrapped up in other arts and endeavors.

But last night, I painted her. Upon it’s completion, I stood there and sobbed. I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

It was my best work, in my opinion… It was the most honest thing I’ve ever done. There were no walls, no constraints. There was no one pushing my pace, forcing reaction, creation. It simply flowed out in a matter of hours that passed like minutes.

Her maiden name was Grace, bringing everything in my mind full circle.

And had I never gotten lost that day I found my favorite bookstore,
Had I not craned my neck to see the captivating title,
Had I not lost my family, my friends, my lovers,
Had I not developed a loving relationship with strangers,
Had I not craved to write secrets on blank papers,
I never would have found her.

This thing that ties it all back to Grace.

A word that surely from now on, will always come with a capital G.

She doesn’t have a hood, darling.

The little darling no longer wears red.

That’s what she said.

She hacked my hair off, lock by lock.

Why? She asked. Why? What’s with the brown, the green? You were a vision, standing out in that color.

Chop, chop, chop.

Make me pretty, I said. I want something different.

Chop, chop, chop.

The violin played in time.

Invertible spheres?

My art hangs on her walls… Shhhhhh.

The little darling no longer wears red,

That’s what she said.

Crash, crash, Boom!

Today, I had to sit next to a man that I used to have foolhardy relations with and explain why it was that I was not going this weekend.

I wished I had worn panties under the miniskirt.

I hadn’t wanted to relive those venturesome experiences with him, it was just too hot for unnecessary fabrics.

So after he gave me a thorough tongue lashing, we played the “Remember When?” game.

I kept my legs crossed and the music pulsing through the place kept my legs rocking in time. The friction stimulating, imagination wild, I had to recite the alphabet backwards…

Z, X, Y, W…

“Remember when you were thrown out of Sullivan’s for throwing punches because the girl trying to fuck Chris thought Vonnegut was a constellation?”

V, U, T, S…

“Remember posing for our realism class and all of the men concentrated on your wetness pooling on the stool?”

R, Q, P, O, N…

“Remember when we fucked on stage back when The ‘Kids were all together?”

M, L, J… Shit, M, L, K, J, I, H

“Remember when John tore your shirt off trying to pull us apart because we were making too much of a scene during our last art show together?”

G, F, E, Goddamnitfuckwhoretwat, D…

“Remember my Bronco?”

Summabitchalmostthere C! B! A!

Yeah, I remember.

I’m still canceling the event for this weekend, but I remember.