Move Objects On
As I waited on the loading screen, I opened the tab containing the blueprint, ‘Craftsman Style House Plan, Two Beds, Two Baths’. The Craftsman style would allow for the use of the new Patch Update roof trims and wooden siding without it looking out of place. I knew I wanted to create a nice doorway, one that would offer enough shelter for a few window box plants and compliment the triangular brackets and wide eaves. The foundation would be raised to expose red brick and leave enough room for a small deck area at the back of the house. I opened the save file ‘Nadie’ and chose a thirty by twenty lot on ‘Bargain Bend’. I started with the exterior, carefully counting along the grid until both floors and roofing were complete. It looked to be an ordinary sort of house, in no way any more remarkable than its neighbours. It was guarded by white balustrade fencing that cast tall shadows against the outer siding and was an unreliable kind of pink, “the romantic pink colour of old houses”[i], which would turn mauve under the harsh yellow light. High hedgerows followed the shadows to the exterior multi-pane door neatly tucked away behind the white budget spandrels. It had four little windows, almost too small to see through, and a brass knocker that proved completely redundant. As I sat at my desktop, I couldn’t help but think of Bachelard, for this world was taking form within a kind reverie, within the hypothetical, within a virtual corner.
Ctrl, Shift & C, bb.enablefreebuild;
I moved indoors and started on the upper floor; I find it is best to work from memory. I retraced my steps and counted eight squares. It was a box room, in no way any more remarkable than any other kind of box room. Hours of play went into that room. The windows were dressed in an early morning frost, letting only a small amount of light through. The yellow bedside lights added a touch of warmth to the damask pattern that crept against the wall’s surface; ghostly almost. Naively I reached for raw umber to cast my own shadows, but I was wrong, they are much lighter than that, like dust. The pink walls had already proven to be unreliable under the harsh light and the wallpaper had become a tedious task. Slowly and carefully, I traced around the floral pattern that lay over the canvas, the spray paint offering a sense of opacity; a sense of grounding to an ever-changing surface.
When reaching for paint I found that my virtual world felt too much like artifice, its sweeping panoramic views proving at times too cinematic, the images so highly rendered that my brushes couldn’t follow. After several failed bidding wars, I eventually won a miniature occasional table, a rocking horse, several kitchen appliances and a set of self-adhesive carpets in blush pink and muted beige and I began building. I placed two walls on top of the beige tone carpet, the structure held waywardly with hot glue gun, the printed wallpaper downloaded from Nadie’s studio clung to the sides with glue stick. I began arranging the furniture: a deep mahogany easel, a bottle of chardonnay, and three canvases, one with its back turned. Baudelaire lay half read on the floor beside the stainless brushes, “Is not the whole of life to be found there in miniature”[ii], he said. The other two paintings took their place on the wall as a reminder of a time when images came. Sometimes they come too soon, but they’re not precious; images disappear, reappear, reconfigure themselves, sometimes they’re conjured, like ghosts, like old friends.
bb.showhiddenobjects
On the second last day of ‘winterfest’ she carved a wooden horse. Waking, slowly, her moodlet gloomy. Still dazed, she rose from her bed and began carving, paying little to no attention to the forgotten easel and idle brushes that lay in abandonment. The sawdust cloud that encircled the block would occasionally break to expose one limb at a time. The sound of the hammer bellowed through the roofless box, limb by limb, hunger began creeping in, hoof by hoof, her task was nearly done.
Testingcheats on.
The day already felt heavy, but her task bar was full, there was lots to do. The fireplace sat on top of a rug, still lit from the night before. I had read that this could be a fire hazard, and so I was sure to place a smoke alarm in the corner of the room and kept the death flower readily available from the coffee table; there was just enough room left with yesterday’s plates gathering on the surface. She didn’t knock, but she had arrived, they exchanged pleasantries about the weather, complaining about the darker nights. Then I heard it, I knew what had happened, but I had left the rare seeds in the living room. Grey smoke billowed through the hallway and he was blocking my entrance to the living area. I thought I could enter build mode and quickly make a new route through the decking area, but I had forgotten, you cannot enter build mode until the reaping is done. We stood adjacent, neither of us able to fight the grid to complete our task. It glitched. She was gone. ‘Testingcheats on, Shift-click, Add to family’. Her green aura illuminated the dining room, but at least we could share one last meal. After dinner, I returned her soul to the Netherworld; a lesson learned, always keep the death flower in your inventory.
[i] (Ocampo,1959, p.96).
[ii] (Baudelaire, 1853, p.13)
July 2020.
Thoughts on Eating Alone.
I woke up early, another warm Saturday, the cloud outside was thick and heavy but letting just enough sun poke through to add a slight golden hue to the kitchen. Once again I open the fridge pushing past leftover pizza boxes trying my best to ignore the heavy scent of two day old garlic dip.
Eggs, milk and flour, I’m making pancakes again. Eating alone as I often do, I notice the other five empty seats, who or what did I think they were for, there’s hardly ever anyone else here, but still they’re ready and waiting patiently for a guest.
I finish breakfast and head for the bathroom, washing my hands for twenty seconds, no less, no more. I wash the dishes, one cup slips, and breaks straight away, it’s not a clean break, this one can’t be glued together as usual.
I feel guilty, irresponsible, clumsy, an outweighed reaction to breaking another white cup that looks just like the last one and like the one I’ll use tomorrow.
Back on the sofa I flick through the channels before settling on a cooking show, standard Saturday morning tv, critiquing soufflé’s that I could never make, and contemplating making a simple summer salad at some point during the week, maybe using some of the wilting spinach from the fridge.
I pick up a magazine, it talks about women’s health, the importance of daily exercise, I get annoyed, I get insecure, partially out of guilt but also because of the reminder that I need to do more, now that I’m getting older, at least, that’s what they say…
I walk to the easel and I think about what I’ve read, I think about tomorrow, I think about what I’ll paint next, I pick up the brush and start making marks, any marks will do, the turpentine drips hitting my slippers, but that’s ok.
Abstract doesn’t work for me, I get frustrated, I try thinking about Krasner? What would Krasner do? I think about Joan Mitchell, Frankenthaler, O’Keefe, put she would tell me to “start anew”. The paint is muddy, I put it to the side. I turn to what I know, and I start painting, I paint a pot, some brushes and an old abandoned palette.
I take a break, and lift a book from the shelf, I think there’s someone at the door, but I don’t feel much like talking. I get distracted thinking about old work, and pick up the laundry, I fill the machine, set it to a regular cycle and return to my book.
It’s 8pm, I’ve forgotten about lunch once again, I sit down to chilli, I’m eating alone, but only this time one of table places has been taken, by this morning’s breakfast dishes.
Through the window I see my neighbours walking by, I wonder where they’re going, are they just coming back? How do they fill their days? Who do they eat with? Do they eat alone too?
I unload the washing machine and add it the dryer, I head for the bathroom, I wash my hands for twenty seconds no more, no less. I return to my book.
I wake at 4.15am, I forgot to unload the dryer, it’s daylight already, cloudy but warm. It’s my birthday. Pancakes again, this time two out of six table settings are occupied, I decide its time to clean. I do the dishes, I go upstairs and I return to my book.
It’s 11.30 am and I bake myself a strawberry cake, I place it in the centre of the table and add my birthday candles, I make a wish and blow them out. I take a slice, and take another seat at the table, this time I can sit anywhere since I did the dishes.
I finish the cake, wash my plate and return to my book. Just another day I tell myself, just another meal, just another thought about eating alone.
August 2021
We Don’t Get Too Many Visitors.
Another soft and grey day, the weather can change quite quickly here and Spring is soon approaching, possibly tomorrow. Standing at the foot of the stairs I try to remember what it is I came down for, there’s nothing in the command queue so these next moments belong to her. She chooses to keep standing, looking left to right; corner to corner. I can see our neighbours through the hall window, some running, some walking, some stopping, some going nowhere, but no one comes to the door. It’s not unusual we don’t get too many visitors, perhaps the ‘no trespasser’ lock has deterred the local welcome wagon.
It’s still early, and with no immediate plans I head for the fridge, pancakes for breakfast, our favourite. I mix the wets and drys and decide I’m unhappy with the surroundings perhaps it’s time to clean. I flip each pancake until each are perfectly golden, I transfer them onto the next available white plate and take a seat at the table, beside the window so I can continue to observe our neighbours.
By mid morning a storm has blown in, each bellow of thunder making small tasks more difficult. I try to hoover and it seems like an endless job, back and forth waiting for the dust levels to dissipate. Some plates are cleaned some are left for another time. Our hands are washed but we’re still in our pyjamas, we settle to watch tv and wait for the storm to pass.
As she looks on at the television I open the calendar to check the weather forecast. Only two days to go. I haven’t made any plans. I’m not sure how to mark the occasion, I think small would be best, it’s not as if the neighbours will be interested.
I continue channel hopping before abandoning the TV in favour of washing my hands. At the top of the stairs I find a book and a corner to nestle in, this will keep us busy for another few moments. The thunder and lightning doesn’t seem to be easing at all so eventually we climb back into bed, perhaps tomorrow will be more eventful.
Naturally we awaken early, we’ve been in bed for quite some time, it’s still dark outside but the storm has passed, there’s no neighbours out at this time. I run a bath and wash my hands. I take some applesauce from the fridge and turn on the cooking channel to ‘watch for ideas’. She hopes one day to cook a ‘grand meal’, but we don’t get too many visitors.
Today there are only a few plates to pick up. After emptying the fridge and loading the dryer, she takes a seat at her desk to practice writing, I’m not sure what she writes about, she never shares, it belongs to her. Several hours pass and we’ve ignored several phone calls. Hunger has set in so we make a batch of mac and cheese and settle into the couch for another evening. This time we watch a film, occasionally stopping to look out the window or to stretch our legs. Tense from too much writing; it is time for bed again.
We’re awake early again, the mac and cheese didn’t hold us over for long. Today is special so we make pancakes for breakfast, mixing the wets with the drys and we remember that the dryer was never unloaded and the lint tray needs emptied. Each pancake is flipped until perfectly golden on either side and then transferred to the next available white plate. We take a seat at the table by the window and while she eats I observe the neighbourhood. Only a few neighbours are out today but it is still early. It must be windy outside as some of them are holding onto their caps.
After breakfast we do only minimal chores. We watch TV until mid morning, we’re not quite hungry yet but it will take sometime to bake our cake. After washing our hands we open the fridge, we mix the wets with the drys but there’s nothing on our mind. We stand by the oven and wait, looking left to right, corner to corner. I have a good view out of the window, but I can’t see any neighbours, only the lake near by and a small fishing bay. Our strawberry cake is baked to perfection, we set it on the middle of the table so we know that it is a celebration. I place each candle on top and each one lights up. We take a slice and take a seat at the table by the window. I see our neighbours, they always seem to be walking up and down the street, I never see where they end up. I wonder when their birthday’s are because they never look any different. Not that they come by too much, we don’t usually have too many visitors.
September 2022
Gemma Kirkpatrick 