The Galaxy Of The Heart

I've become rather good at painting stars.

I mean, stars are pretty easy.

A few white spots here, to imply some great distance that stars would have, being part of the great vastness of the universe.

Maybe a 4-pointed shimmering star there, to imply relative nearness and brightness, and definition in compared to what you might be able to call ghost freckles otherwise.

Perhaps even a classic 5-pointed star in a prominent area, to give off the classic look a star usually has. Something instantly recognizable and definable.

Don't even get me started on how hard it actually is to use a paint brush. If a pen is like writing with a needle: a clean, focused area, very good at cutting into the material it's pressed against, then a paint brush is like trying to write with twenty ballpoint pens that have been removed from their casing, all at once. Using a paint brush is actually quite difficult, especially if it splays funny, or you get an especially cheap one with hair falling out of it.

And yet, not to brag or anything, I'm still capable of using one for its intended purpose, and not leaving little synthetic paint brush hairs all over my subject's face.

So, yeah, at this point, I'd say I'm quite good at painting stars.

But it's not like that's exactly what I want to be known for, per se.

"Do you think you could get some more on my neck?"

"They're going to look like freckles."

"They're white."

"They're dots."

Of course, I acquiesce to his demands. I don't even know why I thought it was worth arguing about in the first place. I don't know why seven or so dots are even worth talking about, but hey, if Horace is so sure that this is what he needs to bring the whole picture together, then who am I to deprive him of what he needs to flourish, ya know?

I don't even know why he asks me to do his make-up at this point. I mean I know why, I'm one of his only friends, and he's one of my only friends. But still, I maintain the question; why would he ask some greasy 18 year old girl who claims that "casually dishevelled" is the look she's going for this year to prepare and apply his on-screen appearances? You know, things he wants to look good for? Good in?

To be honest, I think it's because we often do things for people better than we would for ourselves. I can see something rather self-serving about this kind of generosity. It's easier to do nice things for other people than ourselves because doing nice things for people is often simple and temporary. It's easier to compliment a stranger for aspects of their appearance than it is to appreciate ourselves for similar traits, for instance. It's an act that takes less than a minute, and you get to pretend you're a good person for brightening someone's day, as if that "gesture" of kindness isn't going to be forgotten by Wednesday.

Of course, by the logic of that fantastical theory I just came up with, that means I'm an incredibly selfish person, so that means Horace's costumes and make-up are going to look amazing, and I'm going to compliment every waitress I see.

I'm not an artist, and I'd never claim to be one, for that matter, just because I have a steady enough hand to draw a couple of connecting lines. I don't claim to be a set designer, or an editor, or a camera person, or any of these things at all really, either.

But, Horace is my friend. Horace makes me want to try.

Even if there are some things I'd rather be doing right now.

"See, was that so hard?"

I punch him in the shoulder, hard, careful to mind the drying speckled dots that litter his skin. I'm so glad I was able to convince him to paint some nebulas the night before, if I hadn't, the dots would've been lost in that sea of pale pink skin. At least with the indigos and the purples and the touches of black here and there, they stand out.

"You are so excessive."

Horace laughs, big and loud. Horace has been my friend since I was more or less 10 years old. He has curly brown hair, and blue eyes that I suppose might look more compelling if I was straight, but a nice shade of blue nonetheless. I became friends with him when he utterly beefed it after seeing me complete the monkey bars in two swings, trying to somehow outdo me by using only one hand and one bar that was supposed to just fling him to the other side.

He lost two teeth, he gained one friend. He would later gain back those two teeth, so I'd say he made out like a bandit under that kind of arrangement, really.

At the very least, I came into this friendship knowing I was worth two teeth to this kid, and I've embraced it ever since.

"Do you think the cape's too excessive? Like, we're not David Bowie, but we're not NOT that far beneath him, based on our visual stylings, are we?"

"Hmm, I don't know, are two kids with their daddy's camcorder equivalent to that of an internationally renowned British superstar?" I smarm at him. Hey, if I'm only worth two teeth to this guy, then I should have really been giving him two teeth material all these years.

"You know we're more than that. I'm just saying, most indie punk stuff is pretty understated these days, maybe the cape is just too much."

"First of all, we're only really punk because we're sad, but we're angry about it; straight indie is just we're sad and we're sad about it. Second, I think most indie stuff is understated because most people who are making music are on Spotify and Soundcloud, websites that don't cater to visual media."

Horace hmmms and haws about it as he begins to button up a silk white dress shirt we found in a thrift store together. I thought it looked like the kind of shirt a pirate would wear, with it's collar and frilly cuffs. Horace thought it looked like something some strange romantic-era wizard would wear, so of course we went with Horace's idea, if only because of how willing he was to commit to the idea.

"Third of all, let me ask you a question, Horace." I get up from where I was sitting on a pile of newspapers on his carpeted floor, careful not to knock any of them over, and place my hands on his shoulders. "Is a cape not the coolest garment ever devised?"

No response, mere vague surprise at being interrupted from his current task of buttoning.

"Do you think a character like the Night Wizard, so full of both romantic-era hope and melancholy deep within his heart would turn away from the chance to wear a cape, if only as a chance to hide the sorrowful expression on his face?" I prod.

"I think you've been reading too much Dorian Gray, if I'm being honest."

"Answer the question; can you commit to the bit?"

Obviously, the answer is yes, and it is going to be yes. I did not spend $25 on a dark blue cape and white-colored marker, and 5 hours or so dibbling and dabbling various dots in the shapes of various constellations, just for Horace to get hung up on the concept of "minimalism" and "worrying about his ego."

I know for a fact that this man has never worried about being humble in his life. It's a game we play. A performance, if you will. A lot of our understanding of how people act, move, and speak come from movies and television and whatnot. No matter how realistic somebody's acting is, there's always something absurd and exaggerated about wearing the face of another, even if that face is your own. Entertainment has made entertainers out of us, and just because only one of us is ever on camera, doesn't mean that the other took nothing from it all the same. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled this idea not from his own head, but from a fictional scenario he's heard time and time again.

He'll pretend to be self-conscious as a way to fish for compliments, about his ideas and mine, all the same, and I'll give him what he wants: reassurance, praise, half-assed jokes. Half the time because I don't really recognize that he's doing this at all and half the time just so that way we can continue our production on schedule. School nights can only last so long before they become school days, and in our album "season," so to speak, we have to produce a song and music video in about two or so weeks. Of course, during these production weeks, he's often hosting livestreams, which I have to mod, and merch sales, which I both manage and design with his input in mind.

Life of a teenage rock star, it's gotta be rough.

Still, Horace gives me a grin, and a tilt of the head in a way that reads as sincere. It feels strangely dramatic, if that makes any sense, something strangely choreographed, something staged. But he grins, and he tilts his head, and he places both hands on my shoulders. Then, he says, "you're the best, Hazel. I left the cape in my closet, I'll go get it." And then he brushes past me in his eagerness to grab the cape.

The cape was always going to be worn, of course. If he refused I might have actually fought him over it. Physically. He's taller and probably quite a bit stronger, but I have far more aggression on my side of things, and the everlasting willingness to bite if provoked. 5 hours is just too long to spend exploring the art of pointillism, at least for my taste. I'm sure it's a beautiful artform. But, as I watch him dig around in his closet for the thing I gave him just Monday morning, I can't help but think about what he said.

"You're the best, Hazel."

Uh, yeah, I sure hope I am, bud. I'm sure I'm at least a five teeth friend, at this rate. Maybe even seven.

But hey, maybe I should be more grateful to him, instead of the other way around, all things considered. It's not like it's everyday you get to be friends with a world-famous musician. Just my everyday, I suppose.

Not bad for somebody who didn't even know how to draw a real star until today, I suppose.