A Pocket Archive (34)

In Russian, the words for 'a star' and 'a teardrop' almost rhyme. As such, both work well together in poetry, and they also seem to be central themes that repeat themselves in nearly every stanza of my life.

I left the tattoo shop with another slip of paper in my pocket and made my way home. It would be after Christmas before my next session, but at least it was something to look forward to. There were a small handful of shops that accepted walk-ins, but I'd grown very fond of my tattoo artist and enjoyed his calming, soft-spoken demeanor, and disliked the idea of any other ink on my skin. He was friendly, but never talked too much or forced filler conversations, and I felt very comfortable around him. It was also nice having a small break from the world and a few hours when nobody needed anything from me. Usually I'd end up staring at the fishtank in the corner and drifting off into my own thoughts, enjoying the subtle itch of magic being engraved into my skin.

The past few weeks had been both wonderful and painful, and I felt exhausted in a way that was difficult to quantify. I wasn't sad exactly, but I did feel acutely aware that some important part of me was missing, or at the very least displaced, perhaps the same way old injuries throb in the cold. When I arrived back in my apartment, I rummaged through the fridge for the plastic container with the mismatched lid and my half-eaten jar of blackberry jam -some small pieces of home I'd brought with me- then started a fresh pot of coffee.

I'd never really liked jam, and could remember my mother guarding her homegrown blackberries and the preserves that she made from them with a diligent ferocity that starkly contradicted her nature, sort of like a dragon and its hoard of gold. Things had changed in recent years, however, largely due to the new significance of Michealmas in our family, and we'd decided to embrace the tradition of eating blackberries, making it our own by pairing it with angel food cake and vanilla ice cream. Eating it directly out of the jar with a spoon between bites of cake wasn't quite the same, but it did make the ache of several hundred miles sting a bit less.

I settled at the counter and opened my laptop, flipping first to Spotify, then to my photos for my latest reference images. I still hadn't gotten used to wearing glasses, but they did seem to help with the light from the screen, and I liked to imagine they also added few intelligence points to my stats, even if it dropped my charisma by at least a solid 4.

In truth, I really wanted a nap. Painting was a lot like running in some ways, however, because while I actively disliked forcing myself to do it, I knew it was good for me and that once I started, I would feel better and it would be hard to stop again. I believe there is a spiritual side to creativity (though admittedly it's often misued) and that following in our Creator's footsteps heals some secret part of the soul.

Sometimes I wonder if that's also part of why the devil hates us so much, and, perhaps, why his people do too. As the father of lies and one would aspire to be God, he must be furious that he can't create anything new or 'ex nihilo'- instead, he just imitates and plagiarizes everything, doing the exact opposite of what God has designed in order to bastardize whatever is good, right, and true. He's crafty, but not creative, and sometimes I wonder if his motives really stemmed from a grandiose sense of ego and self-importance or if he existed with a secret, gnawing sense of inadequacy and self-loathing, especially knowing he's lost and is on borrowed time. The former seemed more likely, but I still hoped for the latter, and I certainly enjoyed the mental image of him spitting on blackberries and pulling thorns out of tender places while the angelic hosts under St. Micheal jeered and whooped at him from overhead, daring him to try something.

I licked my spoon, then smirked and reached for a pencil, ready to begin my undersketch.

I knew exactly what I would be painting.