Shapes Underneath

I take another sip of beer before sitting down. I'm not drunk. That's important: clarity is important, as is having a steady hand. So I'm not drunk. I'm not even buzzed, not really. Maybe just a little. Maybe it's stupid. Maybe I can't help myself. Maybe I just need to keep going.

I take up my chisel. I grab the little hunk of wood. It’s oak. Pretty heavy. I've already carved out the general shape. I think I’m going to make a bust of some kind. Maybe a self-portrait. I’m not sure yet.

I start carving in specifics. I'm just free-handing this: no hammer or anything. Just taking my chisel and gouging out little bits of wood. Little scratches, piling up into something bigger.

I'm looking for that special shape. The good artists, the really good sculptors, they say that you're not so much carving wood into a new shape as you are freeing a pre-existing shape from its wooden confines.

I used to be able to do that.

I used to be good at this. It wasn’t that long ago.

I gouge my hand with the chisel and curse. I curse loudly, and for an extended minute I go through a litany of blasphemies and profanities. I've learned a lot of curses, so it takes some time to go through the whole list.

I remember them all, though. I have a good memory for some things. So I remember the curses, just like I remember the dead men who taught them to me. I try not to think about that.

I wash out the gash and put something antiseptic on it. I bind it up with cloth. It might need stitches, but I don't have insurance or money, so it's not like I can do anything about that.

I wash off the chisel. I curse it a few times in the process.

I sit back down by the little hunk of wood. There's a bloodstain that's marred it, and I curse that too. I grab my sandpaper and start working, slowly removing the stained wood.

I used to be good at this. My hands were steady. My vision was clear. I could feel the grain of the wood under my hands; I could almost sense when there were knots in the wood. I could make good sculptures. Really good: not just good for a high-school kid, I mean really good. I won prizes in adult competitions. I had a few pieces in some local art galleries. I used to be really good at sculpting: I could see the shape underneath the wood and set it free.

I notice that I'm crying. My tears are dripping onto the little hunk of wood, discoloring the already-stained wood.

I just sit there. Tears roll off my face. Most of them fall onto my shirt, but a few get on the little hunk of wood. This happens now, every so often. I just start crying. I'm back in the thick of things with my squad, and I'm remembering how it all went down, and I'm remembering how empty the jeep was on the way back, and I'm crying and I can't stop.

I just sit there, crying.

Sometimes I start thinking of ending it. When I'm feeling like this, it almost seems preferable. So I think about how I'd go about it. It wouldn't be hard: I've got a pistol. It'd be really simple. Just bite the bullet and be gone. Not many people would miss me. I didn’t leave much of an impression with my life. It’s a seductive idea: no more pain or worry. No more bills piling up with no real way of paying them off. No more thinking about whether it’s better to pay for new shirts or food for the day. No more remembering their faces every night when I lie awake.

Sometimes I stop thinking like that because I want to get better. Sometimes I stop because I think of my parents and sister, and what they would think. Sometimes I have to drink myself unconscious. Sometimes I just stop because I've run out of energy. I just can’t care about anything anymore, even oblivion.

Today is a little different.

I'm sitting there, thinking those thoughts, and I'm holding the little hunk of wood. I'm sitting there, thinking about grabbing my pistol, and I stop because I see something different.

I see a shape in the sculpture: a shape hiding under the wood.

I grab my chisel and start scratching at the wood. It’s a slow process: little gouges, one by one. I’m moving with caution now, I don’t want to clean off more blood. I'm still pretty sloppy: I used to be really good at this, not so much now.

Still, the shape starts coming out. I grab a smaller chisel for finer details. Then sandpaper. Then chisel. Then sandpaper again.

I don't notice the time pass. I'm in the zone again: I feel the grain of the wood and I see the shape underneath. I only notice when my room is dark because the sun is setting and I didn't turn on any lights.

I'm hunkered down over the sculpture, back almost breaking as I crane in to peer at the piece. I stand, stretch, and flick on a light.

I look at the sculpture, feel the smooth wood under my fingers.

It's a face: a simple face with a familiar helmet and chinstrap. It's not a familiar face, per se: it's an amalgam of my squad. This guy's nose, that guy's smile.

And I'm crying again, but it's easier this time. I'm remembering again, but it's just a little easier now, because they're with me. They wouldn't want me to go out so easy, they wouldn't want me to give up.

So I sleep, with the sculpture on a bedside table as a little totem.

And the next day I sell my pistol and buy some better chisels.

Because I want to keep going.