An Impressionistic Portrait of a Writer

This is an impressionist portrait of a story writer. Now to draw a real portrait one would need paint, and canvas, and probably skill. The good thing about impressionist portraits though, is that they need none of those. What they do need though, is something a story writer has in abundance. This might then be a portrait on the scale of a Rembrandt, or even a Raphael… Imagine that, take a Picasso and cross it with a Rembrandt. So much for impressionism huh?

Well, what is it that makes a story writer? Or more importantly, the impression of a story writer? Take Rahul for example. He is a story writer, what makes him one?

He wakes in early morning, before any of his friends do, with whom he shares his flat. He reaches under his pillow, pulls out his phone to check the time. He realises it is sufficiently early, and stretches. Slowly awakening his senses, he moves his arms about, brushing against the soft warmth of his bed sheets, then further out, until they emerge from under his covers, and feels the cold air of the morning brush against his bare skin. He sleeps in a tee shirt. The cold is a little startling, and he feels the slow tingling of goose flesh as the hair on his arms stands on end. Enjoying the instinctive though very slight discomfort the feeling brings, he clasps his hands behind his head, as he lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. Wondering.

About what he wonders, he is unsure. The room is too dark for him to really see much. A tiny sliver of light enters from a door left ajar, the light itself is mellow, and slight, the blue grey of early dawn. It doesn’t illuminate more than itself. He can’t even see the eddies of dust common to isolated rays of light. But he’s not looking for them either. He is merely aware of the light, and the absence of it. The house itself is silent… no one snores even. No one stirs.

But from outside sounds slowly start to waft inwards, as his senses come back to life. The muted purr of an engine, somewhere close by. From the main street he hears the faint honking of a horn. Absentmindedly he tries to place it – a bike? A car? A scooter? Who would be about so early? People going to school? Shop keepers collecting breakfast supplies, milk and bread? Delivery trucks?

The other noises, the slap of slippered feet, where could that be coming from? His landlords house, just below him? All the way from the street? The scraping dragging sound, it’s irregular transmission, and lengthy gait suggests outside. But how does it carry so far?

Of course he knows it doesn’t really matter, he’s not even really thinking about the answers, but yes, the question matters. Why? Because, he is a writer, and knowing how the world looks and is, and feels, even if he can’t fathom the reasons for why the world looks, is and feels the way it does, is important to him. Every facet of it. He is a scholar of his own reality… much much before he is a writer.

He twiddles his toes, the blanket under his feet has slipped out, leaving his toes cold against the bed sheet. It always amazes him how cold his toes can get. It’s also inconvenient, he can’t sleep with his toes so cold. He wonders if others have the same problem. He knows that it’s because when one is asleep the blood flow to the toes reduces, hence the cold. He curls his toes trying to promote the blood flow, but the cold remains, he knows it won’t go soon. But it will go.

He removes his hands from behind his head, and runs them through his hair, he likes doing this. Always has, but to different degrees. He wears his hair in varying styles and with different amounts of care, so the pleasure varies. When it’s cut very short, he enjoys the brushing against the grain, feeling the short spiky hair, when it’s long he likes immersing his hand completely inside his hair, combing it backwards. He has always longed to have a pony tail, but never had the patience. Lack of patience, ah yes, that is why he is a story writer, not a novelist.

He sits up in bed, suddenly, with no reason, no purpose, he sits up, just because he does… it is a momentary impulse, which he obeys without reason, or pause. The sudden and brisk motion dislodges the blankets he’s been lying under, they fall in a crumpled heap around his stomach, leaving his back and chest bare to the cold morning air, in just a tee shirt.

He runs his hand over his body. Then reaches under his shirt, feels his chest. A little critical, no muscle, no hair, not very alpha-male. He giggles to himself, if people knew he had these kind of thoughts, the whole bubble of his masculine surety would burst. But he knew others did too, everyone did. He enjoyed the texture of his skin, it was smooth. He slipped his hands under his shorts, into his briefs, feeling the top of his pubic hair, it’s unruly tangles, reminding himself for the 18^th time he should trim those, or no woman would sleep with him. No woman was going to anyway, for a while, he counter argued, so did it matter? Continuing he cradles his balls, then feels the shaft of his penis – semi distended as it normally is in the morning… he decides against mastebating. Just for a change he tells himself.

The he realises he’s cold. The pulls the blankets around his shoulders, and drapes them over his back. He knows this is an imperfect solution. His mother had told him, that the cold of the morning, after the warmth of his bed was unhealthy… he knew she was right… but, well, he was who he is, and despite knowing that a hundred and two things he did were definitely not ‘best practices,’ and probably most of what he did fell short of ‘proper,’ he didn’t seem to care. The thought amused him, how many people, if they met him would approve of him, he knew the number was small, but he knew that most people were like him, at some level, they just preferred to cloak it.

He was who he was, and he was unashamed of it, and he wrote about it. Well, he wrote, honestly, which meant he wrote about himself in part too, at least in some part. Hmm… that was a little confusing for him. His brow wrinkled with the thought. Did he really need to be honest in his stories, was he? Could he be?

Ultimately, as he stood up, dropping the covers completely, he decided the better question was, did it matter if he was? Stories were inherently dishonest. They were stories after all. Yes, but he told himself, as moved towards the wash basin… they were stories, but why were they written? People wrote for different reasons. That was true. Why did he write? Because he wanted to talk to people, and he wanted people to listen, he wanted to show people different ways of life, of living, of enjoying life more… it was complicated, it wasn’t just that.

The writing he’d read growing up, had inspired him, shaped him, made him who he was ( fat lot that is, he told himself in an aside), but with writing being so powerful, he wanted his writing to be equally important, and he felt certain, that dishonest writing couldn’t be. Well, yeah, but so many of your friends write better stories than you, said his devil’s advocate voice, and they don’t write honestly, so many many authors too, you know. Yeah, well those so so many authors didn’t inspire me. They were rich… so? You can’t be serious about living like this…  why not? What’s wrong with how I live? I have friends, I rarely don’t get what I want, I just want fewer things that most… yeah, and what about a future? Don’t you want that? Hmm… but I don’t want to spend that future inventing things I don’t enjoy writing, but write them for sensational value. You remember little women and Jo don’t you? Yeah, well she didn’t end up being a writer yeah, but she ended up happy…

But then his mind was made up. No he wouldn’t wash his face yet, it was too cold. Food? He turns, looks into the kitchen. The dishes in the sink have over flowed onto the counter. The counter itself is junk yard of broken egg shells, crumbs and other debris. Definitely not his cup of tea. He laughs at his own pun! Then he steps back into his room, goes to his fridge. It’s empty. Go down stairs and get a bag of milk, or just get to work.

Work, yeah, work…. Well, he’s got nothing to write, just his early morning reverie to dwell on. It will have to be the packet of milk. But that involves so much work! He hates that. Still, better than… well better than doing absolutely nothing, not even having a story to think about. He picks up his wallet, from next to his pillow, throws the empty pizza box from last night into the trash, but not before he picks off a piece of cheese still sticking to the top.

He passes through his room, to his flatmates room. His eyes alight on the one thing that would save him all the trouble. He reaches over, picks it up, and puts it to his lips. A quick glance around, and he spots the next thing he needs. Another swoop, he gathers it, click click, and a dancing flame erupts before his eyes. He lights his cigarette and takes a deep drag. Fuck! These aren’t the ones he likes.

He still has to go downstairs, milk and ciggies, standard morning routine really, but that doesn’t make it any easier for a writer. In fact any kind of normalcy bugs him. He takes another pull on his cigarette, inhaling deep, not really enjoying the flavour, but well tobacco is tobacco. Oh yeah, so a book is a book, then why do you work so hard at the right one? For the same reason I’m actually going to the shop to buy my own cigarettes… (he chuckles at his own smart alec reply to himself… yes that’s another thing writers do)

He walks languidly, purposelessly down the street. Noticing that the sun is finally up, and kids going to school have come out of their houses, with the parents, or servants carrying their bags. Lucky buggers. At the store, there’s a bit of a queue.

“Hi,” Rahul says to the shop keeper.

“Hello, what can I do you for,” he’s quite glib for a shop keeper.

“Umm… milk, and cigarettes.”

“Hmm, which milk,” he asks, pulling out the gold flake kings he knows Rahul smokes. Smokes don’t change but milk brands do.

“The cheapest one?”

“Hmmm… okay,”

“How much?”

“Mmm… one packet kings, one milk, that would be 55.”

“Okay,” Rahul throws away the cigarette, he had been smoking, not bothering to stub it.

“You know what give me one more cigarette, and make it an even 60.” He says handing the keeper a 100 rupee note. No one thinks it strange, that he opts for another smoke rather than more nutritious milk. The people of vijay nagar where he lives, have come to accept his ‘type,’ over the years, they don’t even shake their heads anymore.

Slowly he heads back to his house. On the way he bites the packet of milk and starts drinking from it. Alternating between milk and drags on his cigarette. By the time he returns home, only the cigarette is left. The sun is out, and he feels its faint, barely perceptible warmth on his back as enters.

Time to get to work, he tells himself, as he enters his room again. Everyone else is still asleep. Which is part of the reason he wakes so early, the other part being, he didn’t ignore everything is mom told him. In fact, he was wearing a sweater too… strange, how he did the smart things, but worked so hard on not being noticed doing them.

He sits down on his laptop, and starts to write.

And as he does, this portrait is complete. What does he write? Well, this is a portrait of him, not his work. What he writes is besides the point.