Ghost Town Landscape

They say isolation makes you go crazy. It’s not that we’re social creatures, like many say. You don’t die of loneliness. Sure, that’s part of it, but the real killer is the uncertainty. Lose your compass, and north becomes south. Lose your watch, and seconds become hours. Lose some sleep, and yesterday becomes today. Lose your mind.

I’ve been here for eight days, sixteen hours, forty-three minutes, and twelve seconds, and I haven’t lost any of that yet. It was my idea to come out here and do this, and I’m slowly starting to regret it. I came here in my black and beige 1989 Ford F-150, its paint curling and its frame lopsided. I brought all my equipment, along with two weeks’ worth of food and water, in the bed. It took most of the first day just to unload it all into one of these dilapidated buildings.

I’m staring up at a blank canvas; it’s been sitting on the easel there since that first day, the light from the setting sun pouring in just to land on its dry surface. In my hand is this little notebook; it has the word “Ideas” scribbled at the top. Right underneath, written neatly and with confidence, it says “Ghost Town Landscape.”

The rest of the page is empty.

It’s time to go to bed.

Two weeks ago, I asked my friend Robin what she thought about my idea. Robin is not the kind to try new things, which isn’t so much of a flaw. You’re crazy, she said, but it’s just like you to do something like that. I wonder if it’s still like me. I always found inspiration in strange ways. Once, I spent weeks staring at an unfinished painting, trying to plan my next and final stroke, and it wasn’t until I was all but killed by a car on my way back from the coffee shop that I knew exactly how I wanted it to look. The driver flew out of the vehicle, crying and apologizing, but I just had to run home before the image faded away. I’m here to find that kind of inspiration again.

I’m waking up, and now the blank canvas conspires with the rising sun to cast a bleak shadow over my face. I almost didn’t think I’d still be here this time. In the first moment when my mind had awoken, it was like I didn’t recognize the room I’d been sleeping in for a week and a half, just for that moment, until the reality set in that I was still here. I could leave at any time, but I was still here. I stumbled out of bed and unplugged my iPhone from the portable charger, noting that I didn’t have much reserve power left. I checked the stopwatch. Twelve days, two hours, eighteen minutes, and forty-five seconds. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow.

I decided I would explore the town again today. I walked through the barren fields and cobblestone streets, alongside the crumbled buildings and trapped souls. I’m sitting against a wall out here, thinking about my blank canvas, thinking it’s too good for a “Ghost Town Landscape,” that if I went home to Robin with a shallow painting of the town I inhabited for two weeks on a whim, she would cock her head and say “it’s good” in the way that she doesn’t mean it, in the way that she means “maybe this isn’t for you,” and her eyes meet mine with an intoxicating, obligatory smile that makes me believe it really is good. I didn’t want her to tell me that again. I want her to say “it’s good,” and I want to believe it really is. Maybe there isn’t even a difference.

When I was packing my things into the bed of the truck, Robin was there. So you’re really going through with this, she said. I said it was going to be great. She looked at me like she disagreed. I could never, she said. I could, but I didn’t tell her that. She knew. Otherwise, she wouldn’t help me carry my box of paints and put it in the truck. Otherwise, she would say “maybe you can get inspired at the park,” and she would drive me there and know that I was safe.

The sun is setting now, and I can almost see it on the canvas. Shades of orange and pink wash over it like a thin layer of paint, and it’s almost art. I’m writing “Almost Art” under “Ideas” in my little notebook, the shaking of my hand evident in contrast to the brash assuredness of “Ghost Town Landscape.” Still, the light on the easel dims until it’s blank again. I’m going to sleep.

It’s hard to tell what’s a daydream anymore. On the day that I was supposed to go home, I deliberated for hours before I decided to stay just a bit longer, until I could create something that would make this excursion worth it. Most of those hours were spent lost in thought, watching my memories fly by like a shadow puppet show on the canvas. I haven’t painted at all, but every time I look at that damn thing it’s got a pretty picture on it that I’ll never be able to recreate with a brush. My portable charger died three days ago, and my phone a day after that. I still know how long I’ve been here, but something about the stopwatch was grounding me, and I hate being without it now. If I had to guess, it would say something like eighteen days, nine hours, thirty-six minutes, and twenty-seven seconds, but I’ll never really know. I can tell I made up those numbers; they can’t fool me.

“Ideas” has gotten longer. At least there’s that. There’s “A Sunset No One Sees” and “Portrait of a Life” and “President of Nowhere,” all scrawled down hastily under worse ideas, but none of them are good anyway. I’ve realized I can’t name a painting before it’s painted, because what I paint will never be what I imagined. Paint is paint, and “Ideas” are electricity. No one can see electrons; my job is to turn them into something they can see. I don’t think I can do that. Instead, I have to paint a picture with my hands, and find out what “Ideas” it makes me think. That’s it.

I was getting in the truck to leave. Robin was there. It looked like she still couldn’t believe that I was really going to do it, but she should have known, because my truck was packed with things and I was sitting in the driver seat, ready to do what I’d been saying I would do. Maybe I wanted her to stop me, and say “this is nonsense; you don’t need to do this,” and help me unpack my things and go to the park with me where I could paint a painting that was just okay and she would cock her head and say “it’s good” and I would believe her. Good luck, she said instead, I’ll be waiting. I told her not to worry if I stayed a few extra days. I told her it was a part of the process, that I’d be back, and I promised her that. I know myself well, and so does she. Okay, she said, goodbye.

I’m turning the key and the engine is sputtering. The leather seat is like a stovetop, cooking me in the midday heat. If I had to guess, the stopwatch would say twenty-two days, eleven hours, thirty-three minutes, and fifty-five seconds, but those numbers are made up. I’m turning the key again. And again.

“Robin” is in the seat next to me. At least there’s that.