On a blank wall a purple line rises and falls as the painter walks alone, can in hand, heart fast, breath shallow, hopes high. The line will soon disappear at the hand of another painter, hired to cover this expression of joy, as it will be thought of by the painter/eraser, deciding, based on the color alone that the joy is female. His mother loved purple; hence the can of purple paint was held by a woman or a womxn, a word he can’t pronounce but which is seen on many walls here, in this liberal forest town. Some people change their gender, say they’re trapped in the wrong body, which must suck, thinks the eraser/painter, applying his brush. Some women wish to become men, but more often it’s men who yearn to cast off their maleness and become women, like that guy on that show with the rich family in California. His mother says to accept god’s will, but the painter/eraser doesn’t believe in god. He just finds it weird that someone would hate being a man given all the crap women go through, not to mention being second-class citizens, a concept his wife has pushed his way for years until he just says yeah, I hear you, honey, though in truth things aren’t too great for guys, either, witness the fact that here he stands, in a lousy job, one that’s never going to make his dreams come true. What were they, those dreams? To be true to himself, to find his gifts, to paint lines on a wall, like the purple woman. How he envies her! The woman has no envy, only this can in her hand, the paint she sprays, the sidewalk she’s on alone, the night around her soft and quiet, like a spirit waiting to be born.
Photo by Quinten de Graaf on Unsplash
