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9. Muse
The blank page stared back at Hunter relentlessly. Its emptiness mocked him. The charcoal hovered over the page, threatening at any moment to make contact and reveal his inner most fears and desires. He cursed himself for openly mocking the rudimentary basics of drawing that the professor taught on the first class of the session he was lucky enough to get into. This impotence of muse, this uninspired moment was his own damn fault. Because now the gauntlet was thrown, an assignment so simple and straightforward, yet near impossible: "draw what inspires you."
In the week between classes, he'd bemoan at great length the austerity, the sheer waste of time this class was. Fitz assured him that you had to crawl before you learned to run. Raphael, his friend from the comic book shop, reminded him that Jack Kirby started with dots before they became infamous. They didn't understand, they didn't have this detonating bomb of a virus inside of them, ticking away the moments until he was gone. And even though the new drugs kept the bomb's timer temporarily frozen, the ghost of the ticks echoed in his soul. He had to accomplish greatness before he left this mortal coil. And that greatness was going to be this comic book. That he had to learn how to draw. But couldn't... because he was stuck.
The blank page stared back at Hunter viciously. In the vast whiteness of its possibility, he willed something, anything to form upon it. Something that wouldn't betray his failings as a person. Anything that would prove to the world, to himself, that he could do something right. That he wasn't just some washed up go-go boy, some recovering redneck who had been deluding himself that he had something to offer the world.
"Draw what inspires you." He thought of the green hills that lead down to the river, not too far from his childhood home. He remembered what it was like to be a kid. Running by its banks, hiding from his father when he'd had too much drink and too much eagerness to let loose with his belt. He thought immediately of paying an homage to Grant Wood and immediately smearing the edges of charcoal with specks of red. But paying an homage to someone else's work didn't feel right for this first assignment.
The blank page stared back at Hunter condescendingly. It knew what thoughts he was forming and rejected them before the charcoal could even make contact.
"Draw what inspires you." He tried to recall every panel he'd ever dreamed up before falling asleep, every night for the past twelve years. The characters and adventures he'd only dare to embark upon in that moment between sleep and dreams. He tried to recall the exact sunbeam that streamed its way onto Fitz's chest as they lay in bed one Sunday morning. He thought of his tattoo, the phoenix. He thought about how its inspiration, the X-Man Jean Grey, died like he was going to die, but came back more powerful. But Hunter wouldn't have that rebirth: once he was dead, he was dead. The fear or joy that could come if he embraced any of that paralyzed the charcoal with fear.
The blank page stared back at Hunter. Its emptiness mocked him, enraged him, terrified him, all at once. He got off the couch and began to wander. He shook out his hands heavy with self-frustration. He began to count the minute lines on the ceiling to take him away from the fruitless frustration of the task at hand.
Hunter caught sight of Charlie opening the door slowly from his bedroom. He emerged in disheveled pajamas and at least three days worth of scruff. He watched Charlie walk to the window, look outside, and press his hand to the glass, trying to reabsorb any remnant of the outside world that he remembered. A world that deemed him a monster without the benefit of the doubt. The world that judged him, kicked him out, and refused to let back in. Charlie had never much of an activist before, but in the last six months, taking over the GSA, Hunter noticed a change in Charlie. The kids at school benefitted from having Charlie as a role model, not because he knew the right thing to say or was well-versed in queer rights history. Charlie was just himself, all the time everyday. He was able to give back to those kids because he never held anything back from those kids. They didn't get sugarcoated, automaton Charlie. They got all of him, the real him. And now he was robbed of that. Charlie walked around like a zombie of a man; letting the tears flow when he thought no one else was home. Charlie was a teacher and a teacher who had no one teach was no one. By being completely genuine and off the cuff, he was giving these kids the most important lesson of all: being queer wasn't just activism or circuit parties. It was about finally being true to yourself when you were the only one getting in your way to begin with.
Hunter sat on the couch. He took a breath. And charcoal kissed blankness.
###
Just joining us? Catch up here:
Volume 1 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 2 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 3 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 4 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 5 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
###
In the week between classes, he'd bemoan at great length the austerity, the sheer waste of time this class was. Fitz assured him that you had to crawl before you learned to run. Raphael, his friend from the comic book shop, reminded him that Jack Kirby started with dots before they became infamous. They didn't understand, they didn't have this detonating bomb of a virus inside of them, ticking away the moments until he was gone. And even though the new drugs kept the bomb's timer temporarily frozen, the ghost of the ticks echoed in his soul. He had to accomplish greatness before he left this mortal coil. And that greatness was going to be this comic book. That he had to learn how to draw. But couldn't... because he was stuck.
The blank page stared back at Hunter viciously. In the vast whiteness of its possibility, he willed something, anything to form upon it. Something that wouldn't betray his failings as a person. Anything that would prove to the world, to himself, that he could do something right. That he wasn't just some washed up go-go boy, some recovering redneck who had been deluding himself that he had something to offer the world.
"Draw what inspires you." He thought of the green hills that lead down to the river, not too far from his childhood home. He remembered what it was like to be a kid. Running by its banks, hiding from his father when he'd had too much drink and too much eagerness to let loose with his belt. He thought immediately of paying an homage to Grant Wood and immediately smearing the edges of charcoal with specks of red. But paying an homage to someone else's work didn't feel right for this first assignment.
The blank page stared back at Hunter condescendingly. It knew what thoughts he was forming and rejected them before the charcoal could even make contact.
"Draw what inspires you." He tried to recall every panel he'd ever dreamed up before falling asleep, every night for the past twelve years. The characters and adventures he'd only dare to embark upon in that moment between sleep and dreams. He tried to recall the exact sunbeam that streamed its way onto Fitz's chest as they lay in bed one Sunday morning. He thought of his tattoo, the phoenix. He thought about how its inspiration, the X-Man Jean Grey, died like he was going to die, but came back more powerful. But Hunter wouldn't have that rebirth: once he was dead, he was dead. The fear or joy that could come if he embraced any of that paralyzed the charcoal with fear.
The blank page stared back at Hunter. Its emptiness mocked him, enraged him, terrified him, all at once. He got off the couch and began to wander. He shook out his hands heavy with self-frustration. He began to count the minute lines on the ceiling to take him away from the fruitless frustration of the task at hand.
Hunter caught sight of Charlie opening the door slowly from his bedroom. He emerged in disheveled pajamas and at least three days worth of scruff. He watched Charlie walk to the window, look outside, and press his hand to the glass, trying to reabsorb any remnant of the outside world that he remembered. A world that deemed him a monster without the benefit of the doubt. The world that judged him, kicked him out, and refused to let back in. Charlie had never much of an activist before, but in the last six months, taking over the GSA, Hunter noticed a change in Charlie. The kids at school benefitted from having Charlie as a role model, not because he knew the right thing to say or was well-versed in queer rights history. Charlie was just himself, all the time everyday. He was able to give back to those kids because he never held anything back from those kids. They didn't get sugarcoated, automaton Charlie. They got all of him, the real him. And now he was robbed of that. Charlie walked around like a zombie of a man; letting the tears flow when he thought no one else was home. Charlie was a teacher and a teacher who had no one teach was no one. By being completely genuine and off the cuff, he was giving these kids the most important lesson of all: being queer wasn't just activism or circuit parties. It was about finally being true to yourself when you were the only one getting in your way to begin with.
Hunter sat on the couch. He took a breath. And charcoal kissed blankness.
###
Just joining us? Catch up here:
Volume 1 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 2 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 3 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 4 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
Volume 5 -
Week One, Week Two, Week Three, Week Four, Week Five
###
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