Now Is Not the Time to Panic

by Kevin Wilson

“Maybe we should make art,” he said, just like that, like art was cookies or microwave popcorn. Like if anything was going to keep us from having sex, from doing something we’d regret, it would be art.

There was this little voice in my head, and it was telling me what to write down. And I knew that this little voice, this tiny, insistent voice, was not God and it wasn’t some muse and it wasn’t anyone in the world except for me. This voice was my voice. This voice was my voice and no one else’s voice, and I could hear it so clearly. And it wasn’t finished.

We’d created meaning where there was none, but, I don’t know, isn’t that art? Or at least I think it’s the kind of art that I like, where the obsession of one person envelops other people, transforms them.

But none of that happened, did it? And I still don’t know if that makes me happy or sad.

And I know, in that moment, that my life is real, because there’s a line from this moment all the way back to that summer, when I was sixteen, when the whole world opened up and I walked through it.

I don’t know if that’s love, to need the sensations produced by the body more than the body itself. Not the kiss, but the taste of celery that came after. Not his hands, but the sound of his hands making art. Not the fact that he was here for only this summer, but the fact that I might find reminders of him in surprising places for the rest of my life.

And yes, that is lovely, and yes, I was a very repressed and strange girl who had never really connected with another human being, so I’m probably being overly poetic, because I also distinctly remember moments when I thought, I’m going to die in Coalfield. The summer will never end, and I will never leave, and no matter how many posters we hang up, I’ll never get out of here. And there were times when I thought, Zeke, goddammit, get me the fuck out of here, but I was so scared that when he left, he would forget me.

And I never spoke to him again. But sometimes, when I think, for the millionth time, that I’m a bad person, I can still hear his voice, that single word, No, and even if I don’t entirely believe him, it’s saved me so many times.

I think you’re really smart and I think you’ll do fine. But I also think it’s not so bad if you never quite feel right in this world. It’s still worth hanging around. You just have to look harder to find the things you love.”

maybe it was dumb to be embarrassed about weird things if you were really good at them. Or not good. If they made you happy.

there’s a small window where you can tell someone about your culture-altering poster, and I missed that window

And it’s good for me, to kind of have something already there for me to work with so I don’t get too carried away.”