This was fun to write.
I gave my mind ( as it talks way too much) a name – Banksy. Banksy has a way with logic, my blind spot I confess. Most days we vibe and chill. Then there are days like today when I tell him to shut the fuck up. Go away for fucksake dude. Spray the insides of someone else’s wall with all your crackpot thinking.
I am not my mind. I am not my mind. I am not my mind – I whisper to myself. Like some lunatic stuck in solitary confinement after knifing the big bald guy at the table who looked at me the wrong way. Or was it the right way? Banksy, do you remember eh?
Sometimes Banksy tries to convince me that I still like some flame from my past. Shit, you thought you were in love with him. I roll my eyes at this cheeky fucker and declare, cigarette dangling, hands on hip , “So bladdy what ? So bladdy what if I was eh? Am I crying my eyes out, being sad and shit? Or even worse, writing shitty love songs?” Hold the phone and hang on, says Banksy. He looks me dead in the eye and says – You never write shitty songs,especially when it’s about love. On this we do at least agree.
Sometimes Banksy and I take a long stroll and inspect the walls he spluttered with color. My dude, I holla, check out this high grade fuckery right here! And we roll on the floor laughing. Of course yes. It all makes sense now. You and I are both mad, Banksy. Hey, wasn’t I the one who convinced you to sip your tequila instead of downing it like those heathens at the bar? Yes, that was all you baby! And wasn’t I the one who….(goddamn….this dude is one loquacious fuck!)
The only time Banksy truly shuts up is when I write music. You see….we struck a deal about a decade ago. You are only allowed to loose your shit, hold it together and do as you please – in my notebooks. Banksy, my dude, you are not allowed near my piano or any instrument when Music needs to escape from my skin. Banksy is many things but stupid – nah – he is way to street smart to mess with my bad piano playing. He hears, as I do, the sound beyond the piano, beyond my voice. It echoes throughout my entire body, spreads so much further than I can ever know…and belongs to my Heart alone.
My heart, has no name and we are not sure of her age either. Some say she has been around before days had names. Since before words knew to arrange themselves into prayer.
Says Banksy – trying to distract – are you gonna call that dude? You know which one I am talking about. Nah, says I. Why not, he had something juicy going, if I recall, he quips. Yeah, but it was a time sensitive matter. He rolls his eyes, clearly bored. Shit, he was hella fun though. Best to keep that bit of information away from Banksy.
Every time I take Banksy to somehwere decent and upper class he misbehaves. Come on, let’s move . We are gonna be late and I made an appointment for us! But there are so many walls begging to be defaced, he says, spray can ready. I have expanded my vocabulary you know! I can write letters of love. Pain. Pleasure. All kinds of words! Nasty things with greater eloquence, says Banksy. The kind you think of in bed with naked skin. Look at this crap, says I, trying to distract him. Some of the walls morphed into cities infecting and encircling everything. Yeah, laughs Banksy, that was easy to do, especially in the last two years. Banksy has a big ass family and some of them are proper wankers. Again, on this we agree.
Once upon a time, I reached out to him more than I should. Banksy was kind, closed my door, switched off the light as I cried. And he sat with me for hours, stroking my hair, depression and death our constant companions. The door has not been closed in a good long while and I have not ruined any makeup in ages with my boring tears. So Banksy changed tactics.
He now dons the garb of a mad yet very lovable professor of philosophy – with a capital P. We look through the works of his former life with great care. He is rather proud as awards line the walls. His works have been turned into a coffee table book. Yeah, the kind serious minded people with way too much time display, says I. The kind of people who buy your books need to prove they know the edge. And must remind everyone listening or watching they can buy what they cant feel. Fucking wankers. Don’t be such a dick, says Banksy. Here, take this. I need some water…
Our minds are dangerous places. And I am not my mind. I am not my mind, I remind myself the further and further we walk. Banksy laughs at me. Of course you are not your mind darling. Here. Come sit with me. I am tired and really, I should be nicer to you. After all, you made it through some rough shit. Yeah, let’s go inside here. Its warm, there’s a fire.
Allow me to dim the lights and put on some Chet Baker eh? Damn, Banksy knows all my weak spots. Chet, Bourbon, dark choclate, a fire and cigars. Yeah, you sit down now, he says. I will get the lights. It’s a great Bourbon darling, have another glass. Oh gods, you were right about this Chet guy, says Banksy. And that bottle was selected with you in mind. The lights fade to darker shadows. Now tell me, what were the color of his eyes again?
I love it when Banksy tries so damn hard. I don’t remember, I lie. Just pour another drink and shut up man. Shut the fuck up with all your questions Banksy! He smiles when I close my eyes. I smile when he leaves the room. Chet stopped singing. Theres one last cigar left and the entire cellar is mine alone…..along with it a piano behind an untouched wall.