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- 02/04/2019
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Process of Learning - 4. Lesson #4
“Are you comfortable?”
Attention elsewhere, you acknowledge my question with a nod. The furnishings and décor have preoccupied you; I can see it in your expression. you gaze around my living room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings of the space as though you’ve never seen a couch, a TV, a simple Lane coffee table before.
Once your eyes catch sight of the Geddes painting on the far wall, I know I’ve lost you.
“Are you comfortable?” I repeat.
Although my voice is calm, the inflection triggers the alarm; I witness change wash over your face, like a startled revelation. Color rises in your cheeks as you swing your gaze back over to me. Finally, I have your attention. “Um, y-yes. Sir,” you respond.
you’re sitting with knees pressed against the wood floor at the edge of my grey and yellow throw rug – close to the front door where we entered a short time ago. As per my initial instruction, you removed your socks, shoes and hoodie, and now you sit with your bare feet tucked up beneath you. Although I can’t feel them, I know your palms are clammy, because you keep rubbing them across your thighs. you resemble a stray puppy that I’ve brought home, but I’m not sure if you’re nervous, afraid or both. I haven’t even given you a tour of the rest of the house yet. Will you turn and run the moment we reach the basement?
But, hell, that doesn’t even matter right now. you won’t get the privilege of visiting that room for some time.
Once again, your focus falters. Are you trembling? It’s tempting to blindfold you, but instead I pluck a medium-sized obsidian sphere from the ceramic bowl. After toggling it around in my hands to decide if the weight is sufficient for the task, I approach you with it. “Sit up and hold out your left hand,” I instruct.
A question appears in your eyes, but you refrain from voicing it. Rather, you straighten up, place your full weight on your knees, and raise the indicated hand. When I drop the ball into your open palm, your fingers flex from the unexpected weight of it.
“Extend your arm out, boy. Keep steady. Don’t drop that ball.” Slowly, intentionally, I circle you. When I pause and push my pelvis against your cheek, you instinctively turn your face towards me, wanting more. With a hand on your head, I press you closer into my crotch and hold you tightly there, letting you breathe in my scent until you have no more air. Then, I release you and take a step back.
“Tell me...” I say. “Do you like that painting over there?”
your Adam’s apple bounces as you work to suck oxygen back into your lungs. “Yes Sir, i do… it’s really cool… like sci-fi meets Raphael or something. Fuckin’ cool... i’d give my left nut to paint even half that good…”
The disappointment in your voice is mirrored by a slouch in your posture. A prime example of your self-doubt manifesting itself through a negative physical response. I’ve witnessed this characteristic dozens of times before. If you were wearing your hoodie right now, your head would be buried so deep within the fleece, I’d have a challenge pulling you back up for air.
I’m very aware of the refuge you find in the hiding, boy. Metaphorical but tangible. you seek to cover your scars, mask your anxiety – by hoodie, by silence, by solitude.
This is precisely why I made you remove your jacket at the door. Here, in this house, we don’t hide.
With a hard poke of my fingers, I thump you between the shoulder blades. “Straighten up, boy. No one’s getting castrated here, not on my watch. C and B torture, yes, that’ll happen eventually, but not castration. Your nuts stay intact. Now, deep breathing. Keep your eyes on me. Focus.”
My words dial you up. Bring you back to the moment. Just as swiftly as you slouched, you straighten your posture again and lock your eyes with mine. Satisfied with this correction, I step away and lean down on my haunches a few feet away. Like a good boy, you keep your sights set on me.
We remain still in our positions for a long time – the silence only interrupted by the small mechanical clock across the room counting off the seconds. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Eventually, fifteen minutes pass, and you begin to show signs of fatigue. The ball, now heavier in your hand, causes your arm to slightly tremble.
“you have plenty of artistic talent,” I say, dissolving the quiet. “I’ve seen your work. It’s bold, unapologetic. I’d gladly hang a painting on my wall. Why do you doubt your abilities?”
The weight of the sphere and the ache in your back has become too distracting. you frown, clearly tired of the exercise. “Sir, can I put this down…”
“No.” I get to my feet and return to your side. Tap your wrist to raise your arm back up to the correct level. “you have to learn to hold positions given to you until you’re released. No faltering, no complaining. If you do, you’ll have to hold still even longer. Understood?”
“Yes… erm, no… i don’t really know why i’m doing this, Sir…”
“you’re doing it because I’ve told you to do it, boy.”
At the bite of my words, your slouch returns. “Yes, Sir,” you mumble.
Once again, I thump you between the shoulder blades. “Up! Now, concentrate on holding your hand steady. Steady. Don’t let the discomfort in your body sidetrack you from the task. Harness that pain in your back and shoulders and arm and focus it towards the ball. Push the sensation out to your fingertips. Can you feel it gathering there? Now, think about your art. Envision holding a paintbrush and slathering paint on a blank canvas. Close your eyes and tell me what you’re making. What’s on the easel?”
A droplet of sweat trickles from your left temple. Travels down your cheek and stops at your jaw line. you close your eyes and inhale deeply. A minute passes before you reply. “Um… the sea, Sir… waves… big, frothy… there’s a shore… a small boat trying to keep afloat…”
“What are the colors?”
“Colors…?”
“Paint colors. What are the paint colors on your palette?”
“Um… okay… cobalt… cerulean… maybe magenta… some cadmium yellow and white, to add highlights…”
“Is someone in the boat?”
“Huh? Yeah, but he’s just a dot, you know, too small to actually paint him out…”
“Is it cloudy or sunny there?”
“Cloudy, Sir.”
“Stormy? Raining?”
“Um, raining. Yeah, i paint cross lines for that… the clouds are dark, ominous looking. i add accents of red to show a storm brewing…”
“And the man in the boat?”
“What about him? Like I said, he’s really nothing, Sir. A dot. Too small to paint…”
“Nothing?” I place a hand on the top of your head. “How is this man nothing? He’s a person, a part of your painting. you placed him in the boat. It’s not accidental. It means something. Now, tell me, what are you going to do with this man? Will he make it to shore in time before the storm hits?”
“i… um… i don’t know, Sir…”
“Is he going to perish, crash against the rocks? He and his boat, will they break apart, disintegrate into pieces?”
“Oh my God, Sir… i don’t know. I don’t know what you want me to say… i’m such a fucking loser...”
I remove the obsidian sphere from your weary hand and place it back into the ceramic bowl. you wince from the cramp now present and obvious in your arm. Gently, I take a hold of that arm and guide you up to your feet. Once you’re standing, you wince once more. your legs are stiff, your mind and body are exhausted. As I pull you close, wrapping my arms around you, you fall against me.
“Sorry i disappointed you, Sir…” you whisper.
I hug you tighter to me. Run my fingers through your dampening hair. “you haven’t disappointed me, boy. That man in the boat, in your painting, he’s you. He’s you, being slapped around in the waves, unable to control the boat for the storm coming… Here’s what you need to know, what you need to believe: that man does make it shore. He makes it. But he listens, and he obeys, and he learns his lessons along the way. Without doubt and second guesses. Understand what I’m saying?”
you nod into my shoulder and sniffle. “Yes… i guess i understand, Sir, sort of.”
I give you a final hug, press my lips against your temple. “Good. Now, one more task, and then I’ll release you.” I disengage from our embrace and reach down to undo my belt buckle. “Get back down on your knees, boy. Let’s see how obedient you can really be.”
Despite your fatigue, you do as you are told, dropping to your knees and waiting patiently for your reward. "Thank you, Sir..." you say. "i promise not to disappoint."
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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