A FRANK FARCE, OR A DAY IN A LIFE -- part one

Frank Stimmer awoke angry! He lay in bed and considered the day before him. He knew the kind of day it would be; it had for him the feel of sameness of the last two months... in which his mind had been unable to find a trace of enthusiasm to do what he does; paint.
'Two pounds of shite in a one pound bag!' Another fucking day of it..... What the fuck is it with you Frank? Look at him -- used to have all those clear fucking sign posts guiding him, hey... where are they now? Fucking vanished!. under this... this fucking mound of shite-coloured-doubt and fucking indecision.... double blank!... blank fucking Frank! Talk about shifting sands... I'm wandering headless in a shitting desert. Look at him, he's a real fucking nowhere man!'
The thought of going into his studio beyond that door, which he now gave a look of salt, would be like entering Room 101, where you bring all your dread. Going through that door, which he hadn't entered for months, would be like imitating himself. He wouldn’t even have the spiritual strength to squeeze the colours from their tubes, to arrange his palette, let alone paint...
Usually, Frank fought these negative feelings off by meeting like-minded friends to talk about art. But today, the mere idea of getting up and presenting himself to the world made him recoil. Why today; had it all just gone over the plimsol line? He knew that today the universe would not unfold itself through him, would not show its staggering potential, its strange uniqueness, nor would it's heavenly nymph dance with or for him, and maybe never would again. And for him, to lift himself from his bed, and engage with that flow of life, going on just outside his window, would just be too annoyingly inept.
'I've reached the end of this shite! The more I look at that fucking horizon the fainter it appears.... I mean.... down the Scene everyone is always talking about the beautiful, fucking craziness of being.... And you're the worst, Frankie, among that strange fucking assemblage of bad habits. Going down there every day becomes more and more like falling down the fucking rabbit hole.... But that's what it is; along with the booze and blow... all fucking talk! Which isn't even the fucking foreplay to shite all. Two fucking months without picking up a fucking brush...
'I might have... It might have... could have been, different... if... when.... before the fucking space-time fucking continuum started sagging...
'Hey Frankie, you're a fucking artist failing to be a fucking artist... Oh, will you please give him that fucking iron mask,..
'But back then.... back then – the young dog – keen as a fucking truffle pig, and breathing burning paint on every fucking thing.... before 'art'.... fucking art... became something lost in a void somewhere between media and fucking marketing! With it's fucking silly concepts.... about as fucking relevant as a deckchair on the Titanic! Everything these days has to be watered down – to make it acceptable to the masses. They can't take solid forms – they have to take out all the solid meat of emotion – make it spreadable and absorb-able.
'But why the fuck don't you just paint Frankie...? Why doesn't he?
'Is this fucking life friend or foe...? Well, today, it's the fucking latter, and if this is the end of the fucking road, so be it.... I'll just stay put.... as inactive as a fucking fossil... and there's nothing more to fucking say...
His rough rope of a soliloquy had run out! So Frank stopped thinking and began counting his breaths.
****
Frank's eyes popped open. He had had a sudden thought. An idea! It came, gelled, a bit, then sent a bolt of energy to his legs! He was about to spring from his bed when to the left of his bed the telephone rang!
'Hello!'
'Opal! Wow! Hi! How you doing, girl?'
'You're back!..... mm mm....Great!'
'Sure, no problem, as long as you like....
'Yeah.... when will you get here?'
'No Honey, no, of course not... you know that....'
'It's really great to hear from you. I've really missed you, honey...'
'You'll have to tell me all about it when you get here.'
'OK, girl.... sure.... '
'Can't wait.... See you tonight around eleven then.
'I'll be waiting.... till then. Bye, honey!'
He put down the receiver.
'Wow! Fucking wow! Opal Hush is back!'
His mind curled sensually around itself, like a cat around a chair leg. The thought of her crawled over his mind triggering random images of their last sexual encounter, each one more erotic than the last.
'Jesus fucking Christ!'
He then suddenly remembered that jolt, but he couldn't remember the idea that had come to him like a falling star, which, had brought him back to life. He tried to fight away the images of Opal doing her stuff, which continued to pop up one after the other into his head like a slide show! Disparately he began to suppress them, and trying to remember that lost thought. He closed his eyes.
'Shit! What was it... for fucks sake!' He shouted.
Then bingo! It came into the void – a stream of thought -- a ribbon of sperm, coming and coming till it arrived in a flurry – a swift swirl of confidant cream. The whole concept as intrinsic as an egg, from that great hatchery of ideas. It ran around his brain awhile.
'Yes!.......yes... sure, a great taking off point, and yes, it will fly! I'm going to do it! -- today!.... ha ha... I'm going to fucking do it! It's all in my head, which, somehow, Frankie boy is now, finally, fucking ready and willing to play with that allusive fucking phenomena! I think, therefore I paint!'
No, he would not go down the Scene – he would enter that door to his studio and work! First a bit of playing on paper, but then, at least, he would make a start, a first of, what he felt sure, if he worked hard every day, would soon become a new body of work. And by the end of today he might even have something; a start; something he would be able to show Opal when she arrived – 'work in progress, hey!'
He now leapt from his bed like a trout, and headed for the bathroom: where he spent rather longer than usual sprucing himself up and posing in the mirror.
He changed the sheets on the bed. 'Be prepared!' he mottoed.
Then he stood ready to go over that threshold; feeling like a man about to set out on a journey of Tipperary distances.
He opened the door into a large sunlit airy room. One corner was carpeted, with a thick black carpet. And furnished, with a rich-red chaise longue, a couple of armchairs, arranged around a large square coffee-table. Against the walls were shelves full of his books, and LPs, and a black tower of audio equipment. In the opposite corner stood some large canvases leaning against the wall, and Large abstract drawings and paintings hung on three of the walls, while the fourth was his work space; paint splattered, with worked-over masking-tape here and there. A long work bench stood to the right, holding all the paraphernalia of painting.
But what first drew the eye on entering was the two metre square, white and empty canvas standing almost up right on an easel in the centre of the room. Frank now stood before it and starred like an Easter Island head into its white infinite space...
'Yes, I remember you... my silent one! The one quiet room within this noisy world. O the many hours I silently contemplated your silence; not a whisper from my brush, not a single gesture of sound did I make within your walls of quietude.'
He turned away, and went over to the bench, and pulled from under it, a pair of multicoloured splattered overalls, and put them on. He began rummaging through a box full of hundreds of old tubes of paint – squeezing and disregarding one after the other into a nearby bin. He slowly came to the realization that he had very few materials left... He looked around again and found the tubes he had last used, and to his dismay left open, and were now as hard as rock! He had charcoal and pastels but very little acrylics, which he would need to work quickly.
He went over to the window a moment to think. He looked down on the zebra crossing, and up the street, which was 'as deserted as Abbey Road!'
He didn't have enough money to buy the colours he needed. Should he just work with what he had? -- not a lot – limiting!
Then he thought of Cass; he always had materials, or maybe he could get some money from him. He would be down the Scene by now; he could ring him and ask him to come over here, because to go there to pick him up would be lethal – he would never get out of there. But would he come, and if he did how long would it take? No, what he deeded was a story; a draw; a bait. Then it came to him!
He knew Cass had it really hot for Opal, but he also knew her feelings were not mutual. He went back into the bedroom to use the phone.
'Hi Cass! Look I can't get down the Scene today..... I just got a call from guess who....?'
'Opal Hush!'
'Yeah, India.'
'About a year.'
'Well, she's back...'
'Yeah, today!'
'Yes, it seems so.'
'She asked about you!'
'Yeah. 'If you were still around, and how you were doing. And if you were still together with Teen...'
'I told her.'
'Yeah, sure, we could do something when she gets here.'
'I said she could kip at my place.'
'Well, she said she has something to do, and doesn't know how long it will take. You know what she's like...'
'So, I'm going to stay home and wait for her, as she could come any time, and I don't want her waiting outside for me, or hauling her bags about, and that.... And anyway that's why I rang. I have an idea I want to work on, and I've just realised I haven't any acrylics, and don't have any money, and I must wait in for her... and I wondered...'
'Yeah, wow! That's great.... could you bring them round?'
'OK, Cass, thanks a lot, mate. Bye.'
'Frank Stimmer, has anyone told you recently, you are a sneaky sod? No!, because of your rat-like cunning, you never get caught! I reckon he'll be here in half an hour.'
****
Link to part 2 --https://www.abctales.com/story/chris-whitley/frank-farce-or-day-life-par...