She demands, “Write me something.” a demure curve of her lips hints suggestively that she wishes to be wooed.
“It does not work like that,” Dante lights a cigarette powdered with snow and deeply inhales. “I cannot just write you something, it would not be honest.”
“What does that even mean?” Obviously disappointed, her body language becomes that of a child who was denied an extra helping of dessert.
He touches her chin, “Art is not something made on demand, it is a force of nature, to force it is to just… lie.” He smiles as she looks at him. “There is this moment, a stillness, that I feel when I am about to create something, no matter the mode, it is always there. Time breaks and wrestles itself free from reality, then reality becomes something else. It is timeless, eternity slips by in a second, or a second can drag to infinity. Like an epileptic’s aura, I feel it, it is palpable to me as the ocean recedes before heaving forward in waves. I can note the quiet moments, where the waking sky exhales over the inhaling Earth, as the Earth shares her lover’s air, I can see the veil. This veil, a subtle curtain between the reality we know and the unknowable world of infinite imagination, the veil between sanity and psychosis.” Smoke leaves his nose like one of those artistic renditions of a dragon by Anne Stokes.
He takes a belt of scotch, hits his laced cigarette and inhales hard. “I cannot explain how I get there, I just arrive at the point, and I can only go with the flow or drown in the cacophony of sensory input as I resist.” Dante rises to his feet and moves in an awkward, yet rhythmic pattern. “I am carried in the moist air, pushing at gale force, before the late summer bath water temperature rain falls from the sky in oceanic quantities. If I could take someone on this ride with me, I am certain they would slip into madness and forever be lost.”
He looks at her judgingly as she giggles. Was it his words or his dance? Does he dare ask, and risk returning to the beginning of this? He continues, “I do not believe the process is the same for everyone who creates, but everyone has a process that allows them to view reality from a different perspective, and translate it to an audience.”
“Everything to you is art,” she interrupts, eyeing him as she sips her coffee.
“Everything is art, my dear, every thing everyone ever does is art,” Dante says, pointing down as he speaks as if to push some invisible button. “The sadness of our world is that very few can even understand the art they create, let alone what others do. This is so tragic because it is the only point of being a human, otherwise, we might as well have remained shit flinging monkeys.” He makes a monkey face and starts dancing around like a monkey scratching at his armpits.
He stares off into the distance, through a window, the light jasmine scent hit him through the leathery citron-essence, barely noticeable, but present. “There it is,” his response was airy as the floral arrangement hitting his olfactory sensors, “the moment is upon us.”
Continued here Deuxième partie