Zawmb’yee Becomes High Priestess 94, About Chapter 8

Zawmb’yee continues the blog


     It had been a long day and it was hard to get into my artist mode. I walked up and down the hallway, staring at the blank wall, trying to envision what I wanted to paint. I was thinking I didn’t really feel like brushing on a wide broad background first. Doug returned with the bucket of blue, the bucket of white, the charcoal, and the pencils. I said, “I know it’s harder, but I think I want to do a sketch first, do some fine shimmering detail around the edges and then the background last. Yeah, it’s backward, but it’s possible to do, and the wall is already in good shape — it doesn’t need any priming.”
     Doug dragged the unneeded buckets across to the opposite wall, and brought me the pencils. He said, “Well, what I’ve done when my foreground has gotten out of control and destroyed the background beyond recognition is to sketch in some guide lines to keep the perspective correct for the beginning and end pieces of hidden objects in the background and … ”
     “Yeah. I get it. I do my drawing first. Then, I could sketch guide lines for the background. I could start a horizon line and lift my pencil as I pull it through my sketch and push it down again as I reach the other border of my drawing. Yeah, I’ve got it. I can do it backwards… ”
     “OK. Are we ready now?”
     “Uh… You’re not going to be mad, are you if …”
     “No. Did you forget something?”
     I did the coy look. “You could do me a little favor …”
     “What does the cute little Zawmbee Warmbee want to inspire and to equip the preparation of her pièce de résistance ?”
     “Dougie Wougie-Wougie, Sir, if you would be so kind as to get a big bucket of plain water for rinsing and some little empty buckets for the little brushes… ”
     “And could you get my purse and some skin lotion.”
     “Alright. Is that everything?”
     “Uh, and a partridge, and a pear tree. No, just kidding. And bring your gorgeous self back.”
     “As you wish, Miss artist extraordinaire,” he said with equanimity though he did not exactly perform an entrechat — more of a trudge then a leap. But he can thrust his legs out in a wide strided power walk away in animalistic grace. I had my own purr waiting…
     I walked to the end of the hallway and started a sketch of a deer. Not exactly right. I walked up and down the hallway, stopped in the middle, and sketched a tree.
     Doug came back with all my stuff. He was sweating. I said, “Take off your shirt, and look at my deer sketch.”
     Doug walked down the hallway. “It’s a good start… Y’know, I haven’t heard much about the deer this year…”
     “Yeah. I noticed that. Every year they do stories about how the deer are eating people’s gardens and one group wants to hire hunters and another has some birth control scheme. With all the protest marches, nothing gets done, the population explodes and they starve.”
     Doug said, “We’ve always just ate them. It doesn’t seem like such a problem.”
     “Yeah. I don’t know — city people only eat cattle, I guess. But anyway, this year there are no stories.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “The deer have disappeared,” I said.
     “Oh? Well, we have plenty in storage. Next time we’re in the cave I’ll try out a new recipe for some 20,000-year-old venison.”
     “Yeah. I like your venison… And walk along and look at my tree sketch…” While Doug stood in front of the drawing, I gazed at his back. He has a thick ribbon of twisted hair down the center of his back that looks like a double-helix. The hair on the sides of his back has a horizontal growing pattern from the side towards the center. It was disrupted, so I took a comb out of my purse, combed his back hair from each side towards the center, and then softly brushed it in the same way with my hands. Doug turned and I combed his chest hair downward. His hair is soft: some blond, some brown, and some gray, although the ribbon down his stomach is all dark brown. I petted his chest with my hands and when I rested my hand over his heart, it was beating so hard I thought my hand would be bruised. When I asked how my sketch was, Doug couldn’t speak, and when I reached into his pants I knew why. I pushed him against the wall. I said, “I have an idea for a drawing. Stay here.” I unbuckled his belt…


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