What happened to Picasso..?

And just let me say that today's background music is in a word... Groovy. 

Last night, I had an epiphany...

In truth, this would be a relatively strange occurrence for me.  Let's face it; I know myself inside out; so what the hell is there left to have an epiphanic orgasm about?  And how could a moment of revelation…  A tiny, new insight; change my world?

Well, such is the life of someone with a peculiar brain like mine; but as per usual, there is an audit trail to my idiocy.

Several weeks ago, my sleek, ruby hued laptop died and was taken back to the store for repair; I have been working on a borrowed Mac Book Air.  Okay, the Mac is kind of hip, but I prefer mine.  How could I ever conceive of switching sides?  Every program I could ever want, I possess in the Windows platform; but that is beside the point.

The Squeeze had been using the Mac Book Air given that he is a Mac guy and I took possession of his relatively slow Toshiba and we settled into a routine of using a system that doesn't belong; that has idiosyncrasies that are only discovered, overcome and enjoyed - by the owner.

After three weeks and several bouts of touching base with the store; I had received no update on my laptop and a niggling feeling of ‘wrongness’ started in the pit of my stomach.  I decided to email the store and mention that the weekly calls put in had all received a "we will chase and call you" reply to no avail.  This, I gathered, meant that they had lost Ruby; I’m sure they could picture my bottom lip quivering as they read it.  My pathetic little email, wrapped in sorrow, encouraged the manager to call me and confess that although three weeks and three phone calls had passed, they had in fact, forgotten about my laptop and it remained sitting in the store, untouched.  

I'm not the type to do a gasket or be rude in the first instance.  I can be, don’t you worry...  But stuff happens and me ranting about it wasn’t going to change anything.  In the face of my “niceness”, the manager within the first sentence asked "your name is familiar..?"  Sadly for him, I couldn't say "that is because I'm a world famous writer.. or model..  Or rock and roll icon".  Instead, I mentioned that the last time my laptop went for repair; I had a slap down argument with their "service" company - who were rude, and incompetent.

He remembered me instantly with a groan and quite probably a cringe.  Niceness has its own rewards it would seem; I received a $100 gift card for my trouble.  But I digress…

Last night we were working and so happened to be positioned in different rooms.  While sitting in Mac Book land, fingers tapping away, a weird little Mac thing blinked at me from the corner of the screen and I was notified that "drop box" was saving my files.

I clicked it and a pop up opened with a list of documents that had absolutely zero meaning to me which meant that the Squeeze had networked and here he was, sitting maybe fifteen feet away, saving files, in the cloud.  I know... I know; curiosity and all that.  But I'm not a cat and judging by the titles, they were stories, so I opened a file that had been opened that day; albeit with slight apprehension.  It's not unlike eavesdroppers.  You can open something and there is nothing in there that you wanted to read; in fact, there is a world of pain in there…

As it turned out, the short story had absolutely nothing to do with me; and yet in some ways, it had everything to do with me.

I do not often read what the Squeeze writes; blogs aside.  In some ways it is if reading it would require absorption on my part.  This in turn, for me at least, would demand some form of critiquing; even if you avoid it to keep your relationship intact, it inevitably rears its ugly head.  And why wouldn't it?  A story that he would write would always be written differently were I to write it; and vice versa.  Neither way is right; neither is wrong.  It is because we are each different and see the world differently.

At times upon reading his work, it has left me feeling empty... Hollow.  I have no real understanding of why other than it is as though my dreams slip away as I read his words; so beautifully does he write.  

Last night I realised that the unease I feel, is because I am incapable of understanding an essence within his writing.  Not his words, for they are easily deciphered; but the sentimentalism that is wrapped within those words which is at odds to the real Squeeze.  They are like two different languages, woven with a similar ineptitude of punctuation.

The separation between the Squeeze and this person who writes of heartache and love so mournfully, is beyond my comprehension.  How could it not be?  This man that writes bitter words that bleed with emotion is not the somewhat empty man that lies beside me each night.

In his words, he is Picasso.  In reality, he is a beige canvass.

My mind drifts into “Rubik’s Cube” mode and I wonder if the empty man that is now my partner, is all that was left of him.