A Quiet Moment with Georgina and Pearl

I have taken the bus to George’s place, a self-sufficient set of rooms in an old building with high ceilings and interesting neighbors.

The bus line is a mix of people who wear business suits and expensive shoes and people who wear striped socks and miniskirts, ironically tragic velour tracksuits and Rasta hats.

I stare, absentmindedly, at Rasta Mon, thinking about how much I would like a nap.  I do not realize how much I have been staring at him until he de-buses, but not before slipping me his phone number.

Hmm. 

George  greets me at the door, leads me to her rooms.

She has been using the lid of a giant tub of laundry detergent as a palette, multiple blues, whites, black and red daubs of dried oil paints have dried in excited, creationist splotches.  I push aside a sweater, take a seat.

George has been creating moods.

“What’s going on here?” I say.

George raises her eyebrows.

“The one on the left looks submissive,” I say. 

George nods.  “And perhaps a bit accepting, right?  Like this is something she’s known all along.”

“Well, look at her,” I say.  “The chick in red, she’s won; and somewhere along the line, the one in the tank top always knew she would.”

George tilts her head to one side, scrutinizes the painting.

“Are they a couple?” I ask.

George shrugs.  “I don’t know,” she says, finally.  “Red Dress seems to be kind of possessive of her.  Makes ya wonder.”

I squint at George.  “You didn’t know if they were a couple when you started painting?”

George shakes her head.  “I start out with an idea, but I can’t control where it goes sometimes, you know?”

“But what’s it all mean?”

She shakes her head again.  “I’m not sure yet.”

“That happens to me,” I say.  “I start writing something, and where it ends is rarely how I thought it would.”

“That’s interesting,” George says.  “I would think that someone who works with words would have some sort of control over them.”

I laugh.  “And I would think someone who works with oil paints would be using something other than the lid of a detergent bucket as a palette.”

George shakes her head.  “Sometimes,” she says, “I wonder if I’ll ever be fully self-aware.”

I nod.  “I know exactly what you’re saying.”