ThE dAWN ChORUS.
He once had ambition, long ago he was once considered to be someone with a bright future in the art world. He had been considered a charming, attractive, charismatic, even thought of as an incurable romantic, amusing and a kind man. He was told that he was innovative, a creative force to contend with, a bright shining spark in experimental and abstract art. Although, he had never considered that these attributes applied to him. Because he created works that he liked, for fun, for his pleasure. He liked to think of it all as a hobby. It was just a bonus if some things were liked and purchased. His creativity was a way for him to release his inner demons.
Yet, how quickly things change and how plaudits are so easily forgotten. It all changed his life, thirteen years ago, his last major exhibition at the Muddle Gallery in London. It was for want of a better word a ´disaster´. The works were slated by critics and potential buyers. He was an instant ´pariah´. The reviews were scathing and some of the words used still jangle in his memory. ´self-destructive´ - ´intimidating´ - ´ugly´ - ´perverse´ - ´childish´ - ´absent´ - ´insulting´. He actually found some of the descriptions rather apt, he considered that some of the words described his style rather well. But, there were other comments that were a little too spiteful, too damning in their descriptive reviews. ´talentless´ -´ unimaginative´ - ´a creative void´ - ´an absence of talent hinders this lacklustre fool who uses too much paint and glue.´ - a pointless waste of canvas,´ and so on.
For some unknown reason, he found those comments/ critiques a little upsetting, perhaps because he knew it was the end of a decent income, perhaps he realised that any idea´s he had of expanding into books, prints, merchandise were now dashed. Whatever the reasons, he knew that from that moment on, his art was for him and him alone.
He withdrew into himself and shunned social events, friend´s dinner parties, invitations to other exhibition openings. He did some travelling, he spent a lot of his time alone. Any relationships that formed soon crumbled. Yet, he still painted, wrote stories, kept a diary, took a lot of photographs. But, he never showed his work. In his studio, the art piling up, stacked up neatly all around him was for his eyes only.
AS the years went by, his behaviour was increasingly strange, reclusive. He smoked more ´weed´, he snorted more ´coke´. The few friends that he had left were concerned about him, they found him ´erratic´, ´impossible´, ´argumentative´, ´unbearable´, and ´ emotionally vacant´.
He would say up to the early hours painting, writing, listening to music, playing Xbox games and watching DVD´s. He would look into the mirror and see himself, unforgiving in his wretchedness. Incomprehensible darkness in his hollow eyes, a sneer permanently attached to his colourless face.
It was inevitable that his virile imagination that fed him, that exhilarated his senses would worsen, due to his addictions and his overwhelming obsessive compulsive disorders. Every day became a new horror to him, as he would look in the mirror, and what he saw fascinated him and terrified him in equal measure.
His art became even darker, more disturbing as he was creating his own colour blends from his own blood, urine and excrement. His writings became increasingly vivid, but cryptic, his desires and fantasies sprawled across the pages, written in a madman´s hand. His perspective of life formed and fuelled by his addictions.
When he finally decided to join the computer age, his obsessions found a new outlet. The internet. It was a new universe, filled with people of all backgrounds with whom he could communicate. He wallowed in the world wide web, embracing all that it had to offer. AS the internet changed, he did his best to change with it. Facebook. Twitter. Pinterest. He devoured them. He used them to vent his frustrations, disappointments, anger and his lonliness. Sometimes he would share his sense of humour and fetishes. He also wrote on blogs, an online diary, created websites and he even started to post images of his works. The internet was a global gallery and he would spend hours searching for others that thought like he did. His search was fruitless.
It seemed that he was never going to find people that he would fit in with. What had happened to society?
He felt alone in this real world of stink flesh and dumbed down idiots who watched endless reality TV show´s. The news media spread propaganda. The journalists wrote about their own vanities and no longer reported seriously on the issues that were destroying this small planet called earth. Everyone, of the so called normal people seemed greedy and sheep like. Selfish, empty headed and stupid, oh so very stupid. Where were the creative people? The thinking people? The people who were like him? Surely he was not alone in his thought processes? Where was lust? Where was love? There must be someone out there on the world wide web that he could relate to? Was there somebody out there who could / would understand him, would they want to? Someone who would be his MiSTRESS dARK.
The 13 friends he had left seemed to understand him. Especially Mister Zero, Tom Tron, Lord Muddle and Mr FiSChTZ. They always helped to ease his troubled mind. But, he wanted more.
The internet would sometimes unnerve him. So much information, so much ´rubbish´ to wade through. So much choice that actually was limited, search engines filled with corporate listings, advertising and ´celebrity´ nonsense he wished he could rid the planet of people with very low I.Q´s.
Still, he continued using the internet, making the most of what had become a beast of burden. He believed that he would eventually, at some point in time, find the one he was searching for. Someone who would enthral and intrigue him, capture his imagination and stir his hidden lusts and desires. Someone who would become his muse, his ideal, his ´soulmate´, someone who would want to share his darkness, his light, his murky world, his fantasies and his love.
He worried that his online addiction was a part of his other cravings for drugs and vodka, he knew that he needed to get ´cleaner´. Become a little more human, claw back what was left of his hardened soul and return to his creative path and enjoy the outside world again.
It was a slow process, but soon his need for drugs diminished, he spent some time in Europe, visiting cities that had always interested him. He started to socialise more in the face to face sense and to his surprise... he started to exhibit his artworks again. He even sold some. Which gave him back some of his lost confidence.
But, he was still unable to meet someone that could be his muse. As was usual for him relationships started and failed. They usually liked him in the beginning, but then, they usually wanted him to change in to the person they wanted him to be. Then, when he did, they did not like him and would leave, telling him ´that he was not the person they thought he was´. It was all very Mars, Venus and confusing.
Then once he returned to London, he started to spend a bit more time on the internet. For some reason that he could not explain, he was enjoying using Twitter. It was no longer annoying him the way it used to. And that is when he found her, or she found him. A stranger. He knew nothing about her except from what he learned from her posts and the few photographs she would share.
He had no true idea of what she looked like, he had no idea of her body shape, but none of that mattered to him. Because her posts intrigued him, her words thrilled him, her thoughts aroused him and that excited him. He had finally, after nearly thirteen years, discovered someone that could keep his interest. So for twelve weeks he followed her on twitter, watched her every comment, her every share and her every favourite. He wondered if what he was doing could be considered ´stalking´ and if it did, he loved it!
On the thirteenth week he decided that he would contact her. He was strangely nervous about sending her a private message. How would she react? What would she reply? Would she reply? Did his own posts disturb or excite her? Did she like his art? Had she read any of his stories? Was there a twitter etiquette that he did not know about? He felt lost as thought about what to write to her, he wished that he could send her a handwritten letter in the post to her. At least that would have an element of him in it. The internet could be too anonymous. He decides to hand write a draft before typing it. But as he writes he notices that his hand is shaking and that his writing has become an unintelligible sprawl of black lines and incoherent sentences. What has she done to him, this woman he does not know. Just even the thought of her sends icicles of excitement through his mind, body... and... dare he say it ?
Soul....?
He never really thought that he had one. He needs to calm his nerves, so he makes a fresh coffee in the machine and lights up a Tor Oriental cigarette. AS he smokes, he looks out of the window and stares at the sky, looking some birds flying. He smiles. If my friends could see me now.. he thinks. AS he continues to enjoy the cigarette, his thoughts start to fill of ´HER´.
He wants to know more about her. He wants to know her deepest thoughts, her desires, needs, fantasies, interests. He wants to understand why ´SHE´ out of all the women he has ever known excites and thrills him to his very core. He feels that she is the perfect ´fit´ for him. So, he finally sends her a message and to his surprise she replies and they continue to write to each other. Each day he learns a little bit more about her. She teases him with her messages, hinting at more, but never truly giving anything away. She entangles him with her charms. He becomes a little bit more obsessed with her as the time goes on until...... He can take it no more. He must meet her. See her in the flesh. He must have her!
So, using methods that were indiscreet to say the least, he found out her full name, her address and some other private information that would help him with the idea that started to form in his mind. He travelled to her city. He booked himself into a 5 star Hotel. Unpacked. Showered, shaved and dressed. He caught a taxi to her road. Walked about the area to get acquainted with the place, to make himself feel comfortable, so he would not look like stranger or out of place.. He might even rent an apartment here. Then he started to watch her. Follow her. For 13 hours a day, he would know where she was, what she was doing and he would keep notes, a diary of her daily routines, the diary of ´HER´.
Soon the time would come when they would meet.
Soon, he would go and visit her, his muse.
He knew how to enter her apartment, he knew where she slept.
She would finally be his and his alone.
Soon it will be time for the new dawn, for him to wake up at the crack of dawn and help his muse understand that he loved her.
His beautiful sweet Dawn.
Soon she would understand.
The End.
(continued in the 2 short stories ´A NEW dAWN´ and ´AdOURNEd´)