Slow Day

I’ve been very busy at “The Company” lately. It’s a good thing. Doing really cool coding and things. But unfortunately my blog publishing has suffered. Well I thought I’d take a break and relive something. But I haven’t thought of what I want to reminisce about yet. (currently tapping fingers lightly on keyboard, staring at monitor, waiting for a thought about something to blog about from my past).

It’s my brother’s fault I’m not the master of whatever it is that I should be the master of. One time, when I was about 8 or 9, I had an inspiration. I figured out a way to draw realistic looking stain glass windows. I worked on my drawing for days. Non-stop. I poured my heart into it. The shading. The balance of light. I made the colors dance together with grace and beauty. Framing each window of my inner-church-scape was deep mahogany, rich with ornate detail as if routered by the smooth hand of God Herself, bitches!

Once finished and signed, completely ready for its inevitable showing upon the refrigerator, I collapsed in a heap amongst the crayon paper littering the floor. The Crayola brand sharpener dulled from hours of abuse. No matter. The work was complete. My finest work to date. Well, as far as drawing went. My proudest artistic achievement was not in the realm of drawing at all. It was writing. In the second or third grade we had to write a story about monsters for Halloween. Mine was excellent, to understate it a tad. The quality of this work, a story about a baby Frankenstein monster, has never been questioned by any sane person. A literary triumph, frequently inspiring its readers to abandon mediocrity and strive for a greatness seldom believed possible. It spent an unbelievable 6 weeks on the refrigerator. A feat I believed not to be matched in my lifetime. That is until I finished the Stained glass piece. As I drifted off to sleep, I imagined the possibility of coming in from the summer’s heat each day, several times a day for the next 2 months, to get a drink from the cold water bottle. As I was physically refreshed, I would also be spiritually energized by the sight of my opus. The Stained Glass Collection, Numbers 1-9. Oh yes. I envisioned a series. Sweet dreams, little prince. Life takes a tragic turn upon your revival.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my brother is a fine person. A much better person than I will ever hope to be. He cares about people who are not him. A foreign concept to me. Not that I think of foreigners as exceptionally empathetic (except Mexicans), because that would be racist. What I mean is that I am unfamiliar with this whole compassion thing. I tend to see people skin deep. I have a difficult time understanding that there is a conscious being in there with feelings, dreams, and whatever other bullshit goes on in their pathetic little minds. This is probably why I saw my brother as this evil person that was always messing my stuff up. The truth is I was messy too. But I tended to blame my brother for everything. Until he came along, blah blah blah.

So anyway, about an hour after passing out, I awoke. Why am I on the floor? Why are there crayon wrappers everywhere? Oh yeah! The drawing! It’s finished and now I’ve gotten the required amount of rest to officially unveil it to my mother. Dad would not have appreciated the drawing. Most likely, he would have suggested that I was judging him, like he didn’t know what the inside of a church looked like. And also, he would have intimated that any heterosexual boy would be outside playing. Something like, “So the little faggot was drawing all day. Go figure.”

Ok, so where is the drawing? I know I left it right here. It looked like a big version of all these little pieces of crumpled up, stained glass window … Uh oh.

So yeah, my brother had torn up the drawing. He had no idea why. When asked, he told mother “I felt like destroying something beautiful.”

I was hurt. But honestly, somehow I knew I’d get more mileage out of the destruction of the work. Every time I felt like drawing, I’d blame my brother and not draw. He ruined me, was my excuse. Even years later, when my brother proved to be the true talent, faithfully reproducing most of the artwork of genius and Conan illustrator, Frank Frazetta, I hung on to the excuse.

“Isn’t Steve a gifted artist?” grandma would ask.
“You should have seen the stained glass window,” I’d whisper.