You haven’t exercised your creative juices in awhile. Maybe today after dinner. Let these sycophants finish their false laughter and pointless banter first. Smile! Don’t let them suspect you, doubt you.
Yes, they know you’re talented, wish to sabotage your contributions to art, to coming closer to knowing what makes a man’s soul. Don’t let their fluttering eyelashes fool you! Their eyes betray their true nature.
Say ‘thank you’. Smile. Show the fools the door! No matter how many times they come, they’re never able to find their own way out. Like newborn babes, they need someone to hold their hand while they walk, lest they fall over and cry.
Wave! Wave at them happily, but keep your eyebrows downturned slightly as if in regret that they are leaving so soon. Not too down! Don’t encourage them to stay, but don’t force them to leave – not when you’re so close to completing your magnum opus.
There. They’re all gone. Only shadows of laughter and cake crumbs left behind to show that they were ever here.
From below the sink, gather your friends: hardy hammer, crafty chisel. Long have they waited, lonely, in the dusty toolbox they call home. Miss them, don’t you? Feel the heft, the familiar weight of the hammer’s head. Twirl the chisel, admire its supple lines and sharp edge.
Lowly tools of man they may be, but statues worthy of the Gods themselves will you craft with them!
Your canvas awaits in the basement. Watch your step! You know those wooden planks will have to go one day. Maybe the whole house too. All will make way for fame and fortune! You only need to take a few baby steps closer to the fulfillment of all your wildest dreams.
Then again it was never about the glamour or the girls, wasn’t it? You were always the idealistic one, ranting and raving about how art – as an expression, as a medium, as an ideal – was dying of cancer and all the world could do was stand by and give it syphillis.
You had long sought to change things, return them to the way they were in times gone by. But did they listen to you? Give you a chance? No! And why not? Because they’re all doubters! Fucking doubters, all of them! Cleaved you in half, they did; left you for dead, they did!
But you shall not be distracted by such petty grievances. Why waste your boundless energy on them? Better to focus your attention upon more deserving specimens..
The light switch in the corner, throw it! Ah, yes, such a marvel to behold even before its public unveiling. The flawed cracks here and there, a brilliant metaphor for that brittle thing we call life. The symbols and letters, analogous to the cacophony of mankind who speak in many tongues – sometimes simultaneously, which is why people could go crazy!
Lift your hand, man! Put the chisel to the grind, let your creativity flow through your veins! Let it saturate you to the tips of your fingers and let it bring this work to life!
Yes, yes, that’s it. Gently now, we don’t want to overexaggerate the features down there. Now to the chest.. Excellent, brilliant! Careful now.. oh, you great buffoon! Good thing it didn’t go all the way or you’d have split the damn thing in two! Some work of art that’d turn out to be!
Patience, you oaf! Have I not taught you again and again.. patience is a virtue! When you sculpt the work of God, you must live and breathe the man God created you to be! Discipline, faith, patience, humility! All of these things you must be and more in His name!
What? You’re almost done? Fantastic. This I must see for myself. Turn on the spotlights! ..oh my god.. it’s beautiful! Yes, yes! Can you hear it now? Listen! Angels.. singing praises to your genius, Gods bowing in respect to your creation, for not even They could have thought to create such a marvel!
Oh, sweet thing of beauty! Marvelous.. marvelous! Stupendous! Words cannot adequately express the sheer joy in beholding.. What? What?! Men!.. at the door! They know! THEY KNOWW!!! Fucking doubters! Kill them. KILL THEM ALL!!!!!
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From the diary of Sergeant Burns, 11/24/58:
By the time Meyers’d taken the sculptor down, he’d cut up five of my boys with his damn hammer and chisel. But just when we thought we’d seen everything.. we found Mrs. Maxwell down in the basement. That sick fuck had her hung from the ceiling with hooks pierced through her wrists.. her head was hangin’ off her neck by a thin flap o’ skin. Worse, it was clear that he’d been hard at work on her for some time.. she smelled worse than month-old meat at the dump, and she had whole words carved all over her.. verses from Hamlet, the Bible, Dante’s Inferno, things I’d never read before.. God, fuck.. what could drive a man to such infernal depths that he be a man no more?