the nothing

kirrrsshhhhkkuhhh
I drag the easel in front of me with one hand and set a new canvas on it. Then I pick up the black scarf, pull it taut over my eyes, and tie the ends behind my head. In front of the canvas I stand naked, aside from the knit covering around my head. The couch behind me. The lamp on the floor. The stack of unused canvases in the corner. The small table next to me with paints poured out. The window with the curtains pulled shut. I stand still and wait.
gahshoooooooo verrrrrrrrguhhh
A car drives by outside, signaling me to reach to the table. My fingers dip into the cold and slimy paint. I swipe a line across the canvas.
swwwuuuupppp
The car disappears. Silence again.
I shift my weight to my right leg causing the floor to whine.
keaarrr
I dip into the paint and reach out to the canvas again. I press one finger and drag it across quickly.
swwwwip
The paint begins sticking my skin like glue as I touch my index and middle finger to my thumb before pulling them apart again and again. Again and again. I reach to the table and scrape my fingers across the edge.
iiiishhhaaap
The scarf begins to trap heat around my eyes, spreading to my scalp. I press the back of my bent wrists against my eyes, fingers jutting out. White sparks appear in my vision, streaking downward then upwards with every rub.
weessshh bwip weessshh bwip weeesssshhh
I stretch for the paint and get a fistful to slap at the canvas. I swirl my fingers around, making bigger and bigger circles. Silence again.
I hold my breath and listen. A slight buzzing from the lamp. I close my eyes tighter and my eyelashes scrape against the inside of the scarf. I step back causing the floor to creak and whine again. Wind blows outside which makes the window stutter back and forth in its wooden frame.
juuuuuuunnnne
bwahhh dup
keaarrr
datup datuppp datt tattttt
I extend my arm and scoop up the paint again. I spread it across the canvas and reach for more. I drag my hand through the cold goop and shove it against the canvas. I grab to steady the easel but the frame and canvas topple over.
Chaaaaagggguuhhhhsshhh pahhhkkkdddoowww
I jump down and push my palms hard against the fallen square and begin smearing the paint around. I rub my hands up and down the sides of the frame. I make a fist and slam my hand down onto the canvas again and again. Again and again. Flecks of paint splash up my arms and onto my bare legs. I rip the scarf off and continue to . . .

****

An enormous realistic cat head hangs against a wall. Hollowed out eyes leave black craters and people keep taunting each other to look inside.
Just look.
What’s in there?
Just go look in there. I dare you.
No, you.
Several pink neon lights positioned from the ceiling light up a painting of a hand reaching out of a coffin. The fingernails painted red.
A door lays on the floor, it’s handle replaced with a slinky that is flopped onto the ground.
I walk up to a small rectangle with the words THINKING OF YOU in bold typeface, the letter F and U are mirrors. The even smaller plaque next to it says -

Ty Yates (Mexican American)

Thought Process, 2021 - 2022

Silver, aluminum, glass, enamel.

Alice walks up to me and hands me a glass while sipping from her own. The ice clinks as I take the cold drink.
Pwinnngg kuhpwinnnggg
“Have you even seen Martin yet,” she asks while craning her head around. Spotting the slinky door she says, “That one is so fucking funny.”
I wonder who chose the music as the bass overpowers everything else, distorted rhythmic banging over and over. I wonder if it’s shitty speakers or intentional.
Gguuhsshhheeww gshheww sheww shewwguhh
“Haven’t seen him,” I reply. I take a big, sour sip. “What is this,” I ask.
“Pink lemonade and ummm . . . whiskey. Let’s look at this one,” she says as she puts her already empty glass down on a table and pulls my arm. I turn to set my glass down as well but I’m pulled too far away.
Two men have bent down around the table, eye level with Alice’s glass. They inspect it like it’s one of the art pieces.
We walk up to a painting of a baby wearing a police uniform. It’s sitting up, it’s round hands holding a gun. She looks at the painting and crosses one arm over the other. Her pinky sticks out, pointing at the baby then retracts. She does it again.
“Is this one funny,” I ask her. I already know it’s not.
“I hate it,” she says immediately.
“What do you think of . . . “ I look around and point to a painting. “That one,” I gesture.
We walk up to a canvas with smears of black through flowing swirls of blue and green that blend hideously into a brown mixture. The outside ends of the canvas are smeared with color, obvious spots have been missed and not fully covered in paint. There are spots of red paint in cracked chunks throughout the entire painting. Several fingerprints can be seen scattered around the canvas. The small plaque next to the canvas reads:

Anonymous, (American)

Wednesday, 12:27 AM, 2022

Acrylic.

“I mean its finger painting,” Alice says while staring at the canvas.
“Heard Martin sold the last one for $12,000.”
“He . . . “ she trails off. “What the ever loving fuck? I should make a fucking finger painting. All this swirly shit, is that like representing some male rage, or what,” she asks.
“So you think Anonymous is a guy?”
“Only a dude could get away with this shit. Finger paints selling for thousands?” she exclaims, poising the question.
“Maybe that’s the point. Selling some bullshit back to, you know” I say and raise my glass to the entire gallery.
“But, why do that when you could do something that’s actually intelligent. Or actually making a statement.”
“Like baby cop. Or high res print of a Kanye tweet. Arts gone to shit if you ask me,” I say. I realize how loud the room is suddenly.
Fuuuutwoooooo gshhewww gshhewww heggguuuuffftttt ghssewwww
“Then fucking do something about it.”

****

Alice and I stand in my kitchen. She plays with the poetry magnets on the fridge, peeling each word off and placing it in a new row.
Shuuhhpop shuuuhhhpop shuuuu . . . pop
She steps back and looks at the line of tiny magnets.
“The wolf births the alcoholic children of all the drug people and please don’t think anything about it,” she reads aloud.
“Print it on a few panels, neon letters or whatever. 50 K right there,” I try to joke.
She spins and points her pinky at me. Her foot squeaks in place on the kitchen floor. “Oh my god I’m sorry. That sound was awful,” she says.
“Sometimes every sound is awful to me. Like, I can’t block out every little sound. The humming and creaking and every single car driving by outside. I hate it.”
“You’d probably hate the like, ASMR videos then. It’ll be like . . . someone chewing, or tapping their fingernails on a glass bottle.” She shivers and continues, “I can’t even stand those.”
I stand and look at Alice. I pull my drink up slowly to my lips and try to drink as quietly as I can. I hear the tiny gulp when I swallow. The blood rushing around in my temples. The refrigerator wheezing.
“What are you thinking,” she asks.
“When it’s silent like that, not just quiet but no sound for a few seconds. I wish it was like that all the time. Just nothing.”
She holds still, her eyes slowly gaze around without moving her head.
“I know. I can barely hear over this loud ass fridge,” she whispers. She pulls her lips tight and places her finger over them. She then tip toes out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Before exiting she turns and does an exaggerated swing with her arm, inviting me to another room in my own house.
We walk into the room and I bend down to turn on the lamp on the floor. The studio lights up, barely, and Alice looks at the easel with a canvas sitting on it. Swipes and half smears of paint cover the surface.
“Wait. You’re fucking Anonymous?” she asks, suddenly full volume again.
“It’s just finger painting, remember?”
“Are you serious? So . . . what? Is it really a big fuck you to everyone?”
“Its whatever you see it as. Its no different than any other piece Martin tries to sell.”
She walks over to the table slowly and bends over to observe the paint before pressing one finger into it. She then rubs it onto her pant leg.
I sit on the couch. Alice follows me over, her steps much louder than her tip toeing. I try to ignore it.
She sits facing me on the couch, and places her hand down on the cushion while sliding her legs up beneath her. She then kneels before lowering herself onto me.
Our bodies press onto the couch and the floor squeaks again. She presses her mouth into mine and I hear her breathing mix with mine.
keaarrr
Shhhhheeeeee haaawwwww
I hear a car drive on some street on some city block that echoes through the air and into my studio walls and I try to ignore it. I try to hear nothing. I move my leg and a joint pops. I hear my own breathing and different clothing materials scraping against each other. I want to fuck for once without the rhythmic banging of the couch frame back and forth. I want nothing.

****

I wake up to a rustling sound, leftover from a dream or happening in the room right now, I can’t tell. A sliver of light comes through the curtains from outside. Several cars are driving by. Birds make their morning greetings to whoever will listen.
I look around, but I don’t see Alice. She must have left at one point, somehow silently. Or, I slept that hard for once. I look to the easel and see that the painting is gone. I stand up and walk towards it, looking on the floor and behind the table. The painting is nowhere.
kirrrsshhhhkkuhhh
I drag the easel in front of me with one hand and set a new canvas on it. Then I pick up the black scarf, pull it taut over my eyes, and tie the ends behind my head. In front of the canvas I stand naked, aside from the knit covering around my head. The couch behind me. The lamp on the floor. The stack of unused canvases in the corner. The small table next to me with paints poured out. The window with the curtains pulled shut. I stand still and wait for nothing.