Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine and all recognizable characters are the (highly) intellectual property of one Todd Haynes and probably some huge company whose name escapes me.
The Verisimilitude of Curt Wild
Curt Wild had learned long ago to never get attached to any one person, place or thing. It was a rule he had adopted as a child and he could clearly remember the specific circumstances that had forced him to create it. Funnily enough, it had been the same day, the same circumstance, that had planted the seed of who he now was inside him, all shock therapy stories aside.
He had been twelve years old when he made a clay pot at school in his Fine Arts class. Painting and Pottery came after the six week long section on theater but right before the one on music. For two and a half weeks he had struggled with that lump of clay, poking and twisting it, forcing tiny patterns onto its soft and yielding surface. His blunt and grubby fingers had felt huge and awkward at first, clumsy, but then, as he toiled onward forty five minutes a day, five days a week, they became more sure, and he more confident.
Curt recalled how beautiful it was when he finished, after he had baked the pink clay and painted it shiny black with swirls of bright colors. He had managed to contain his excitement enough to keep its existence a secret from his parents, not an especially difficult task. When was the last time they had asked what he had done in school?
He had dreamt of the day he would finally bring it home, casually placing it on the counter or tabletop where his mother would immediately notice it and gently lift it into her rough and nicotine stained hands, smoothing her fingers over its flawless surface in awe.
She would then call for his father, who would hold his hands over the glinting pot, not quite touching it but unable to tear his admiring gaze away.
Then, finally, they would regard their son with wide and shining eyes, and understand him. Curt would smile and forgive them for all the times they had hurt him or forgotten him, and they would smile back and he would see real love in their eyes for the first time in his life. Somehow, his brother never seemed to enter the picture...
When he was at last allowed to take it home, wrapped in tissue paper and tucked inside a small white box, he had carefully placed it, as planned, on the small table in their tiny home.
His giddy apprehension soon turned to desperate anxiety when his creation went unnoticed as the evening wore on. He forced himself not to simply pick it up and thrust it in his mother's face, a silent and indirect plea for her to see him in the sculpted clay.
That evening his father and brother stumbled in faces red and mouths open in laughter. The trailer shook from their ruckus and Curt's mother demanded that they "keep it the hell down."
They ignored her and continued to wrestle. Curt meekly slid out of the way of their bigger bodies, hiding at the far end of the table. Too late he noticed his pot tremble as they bumped the table roughly. His eyes widened in horror as his brother fell into the table again, and the precious artwork was knocked onto its side. It rolled and Curt dashed around to stop it, catch it, save it, but his brother grabbed his shirt.
His hands shot out in a fury, pushing his brother back. He hated it when his brother touched him anyway, but now those hands were keeping him from his last chance, the object that would save his life. The older boy's eyes clouded in confusion, then darted to the side and spotted the clay pot. Malice flickered in those eyes and he clung tighter to Curt.
"No!" The young boy's stomach tightened and seemed to shudder within him as nervous dread overcame him.
Curt watched, helpless, as the pot fell and shattered on the dirty tile. He dropped to his knees before it and lifted a shard with one shaking hand. All had fallen silent around him.
"Curt?" his mother ventured after a deep and uncomfortable silence had stretched between them all. She crouched next to him. "What is this?"
Curt drew in a hitching breath and did not meet her questioning gaze. "My pot," he said unevenly, tracing a finger along a delicate groove. "I - I made it at school." He could not hide the unmistakable quiver in his voice. His cheeks flushed scarlet in humiliation.
The harsh stares of his family bore into him like the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights. It reminded him of when his father hurt him enough that it warranted a visit to the emergency room. The doctors looked at him in this way. Everyone did. Something always had been a bit off about Curt, no one could pick out exactly what it was, but it was there, like a splinter, digging into him mercilessly.
"I wanted to show it to you," he whispered, horrified at the sickly trembling in his limbs.
After a lengthy pause she said, "Oh," rather loudly. She regarded the long and jagged shard in her son's hand and briefly smiled. "Maybe you can make another one tomorrow."
Dumbly he had nodded. Inside his mind reeled.
*Tomorrow?* it cried, *Tomorrow?!*
There was no tomorrow. His spirit had broken with the clay that lay before him. Everything he had was set loose when it crashed against the hard floor and evaporated in the air around them, swirling like miniscule dust fragments in the slanting light of the setting sun before disappearing forever. Everything he created after this would never come close to what he had instilled within that clay pot - the promise it had held.
His mother stood. "Be sure to throw all that away. I don't want to get cut."
Curt had only nodded again, squeezing the broken shard until its sharp edges cut into his shaking palm.
Since then, Curt Wild had made but two exceptions to his unvoiced rule, his silent and personal law to never allow himself to love or believe in anything: heroin and Brian Slade.
Both had nearly killed him.
Heroin, in some cheap motel in North Dakota, luring him into a fuzzy and blissful unconsciousness in the cooling water of a bathtub.
Brian Slade - Maxwell Demon - in a recording studio in England.
When Brian had turned his back on him, having some unheard conversation with another, the nervous, fluttery feeling returned and Curt's stomach did flip-flops.
"What?" he demanded. "What?!"
Curt wanted to break something - mostly himself. He had done something *again* to ruin everything. Had failed in some way. It seemed he was fated to be some lonely fuck up forever.
He wanted to go backwards in time and get rid of this stupid image he had created.
*Curt Wild.*
No one hurts *Curt Wild.*
No one gets to *Curt Wild.*
Load of shit. Load of shit!
*Everyone* hurts Curt Wild. Maybe if he could let them see how torn up he was--?
Instead, a string of obscenities spilled past his lips, twisted cruelly into an enraged sneer. He grabbed whatever was near and threw it, kicked it. He pounded on the glass for attention.
He could see his silent audience leaving and it meant sweet fuck all. Brian would not look at him.
His vision blurred and he let his image save him once again. Going crazy would surprise no one. They expected it. He was Curt Wild, after all.
The Verisimilitude of Curt Wild
Curt Wild had learned long ago to never get attached to any one person, place or thing. It was a rule he had adopted as a child and he could clearly remember the specific circumstances that had forced him to create it. Funnily enough, it had been the same day, the same circumstance, that had planted the seed of who he now was inside him, all shock therapy stories aside.
He had been twelve years old when he made a clay pot at school in his Fine Arts class. Painting and Pottery came after the six week long section on theater but right before the one on music. For two and a half weeks he had struggled with that lump of clay, poking and twisting it, forcing tiny patterns onto its soft and yielding surface. His blunt and grubby fingers had felt huge and awkward at first, clumsy, but then, as he toiled onward forty five minutes a day, five days a week, they became more sure, and he more confident.
Curt recalled how beautiful it was when he finished, after he had baked the pink clay and painted it shiny black with swirls of bright colors. He had managed to contain his excitement enough to keep its existence a secret from his parents, not an especially difficult task. When was the last time they had asked what he had done in school?
He had dreamt of the day he would finally bring it home, casually placing it on the counter or tabletop where his mother would immediately notice it and gently lift it into her rough and nicotine stained hands, smoothing her fingers over its flawless surface in awe.
She would then call for his father, who would hold his hands over the glinting pot, not quite touching it but unable to tear his admiring gaze away.
Then, finally, they would regard their son with wide and shining eyes, and understand him. Curt would smile and forgive them for all the times they had hurt him or forgotten him, and they would smile back and he would see real love in their eyes for the first time in his life. Somehow, his brother never seemed to enter the picture...
When he was at last allowed to take it home, wrapped in tissue paper and tucked inside a small white box, he had carefully placed it, as planned, on the small table in their tiny home.
His giddy apprehension soon turned to desperate anxiety when his creation went unnoticed as the evening wore on. He forced himself not to simply pick it up and thrust it in his mother's face, a silent and indirect plea for her to see him in the sculpted clay.
That evening his father and brother stumbled in faces red and mouths open in laughter. The trailer shook from their ruckus and Curt's mother demanded that they "keep it the hell down."
They ignored her and continued to wrestle. Curt meekly slid out of the way of their bigger bodies, hiding at the far end of the table. Too late he noticed his pot tremble as they bumped the table roughly. His eyes widened in horror as his brother fell into the table again, and the precious artwork was knocked onto its side. It rolled and Curt dashed around to stop it, catch it, save it, but his brother grabbed his shirt.
His hands shot out in a fury, pushing his brother back. He hated it when his brother touched him anyway, but now those hands were keeping him from his last chance, the object that would save his life. The older boy's eyes clouded in confusion, then darted to the side and spotted the clay pot. Malice flickered in those eyes and he clung tighter to Curt.
"No!" The young boy's stomach tightened and seemed to shudder within him as nervous dread overcame him.
Curt watched, helpless, as the pot fell and shattered on the dirty tile. He dropped to his knees before it and lifted a shard with one shaking hand. All had fallen silent around him.
"Curt?" his mother ventured after a deep and uncomfortable silence had stretched between them all. She crouched next to him. "What is this?"
Curt drew in a hitching breath and did not meet her questioning gaze. "My pot," he said unevenly, tracing a finger along a delicate groove. "I - I made it at school." He could not hide the unmistakable quiver in his voice. His cheeks flushed scarlet in humiliation.
The harsh stares of his family bore into him like the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights. It reminded him of when his father hurt him enough that it warranted a visit to the emergency room. The doctors looked at him in this way. Everyone did. Something always had been a bit off about Curt, no one could pick out exactly what it was, but it was there, like a splinter, digging into him mercilessly.
"I wanted to show it to you," he whispered, horrified at the sickly trembling in his limbs.
After a lengthy pause she said, "Oh," rather loudly. She regarded the long and jagged shard in her son's hand and briefly smiled. "Maybe you can make another one tomorrow."
Dumbly he had nodded. Inside his mind reeled.
*Tomorrow?* it cried, *Tomorrow?!*
There was no tomorrow. His spirit had broken with the clay that lay before him. Everything he had was set loose when it crashed against the hard floor and evaporated in the air around them, swirling like miniscule dust fragments in the slanting light of the setting sun before disappearing forever. Everything he created after this would never come close to what he had instilled within that clay pot - the promise it had held.
His mother stood. "Be sure to throw all that away. I don't want to get cut."
Curt had only nodded again, squeezing the broken shard until its sharp edges cut into his shaking palm.
Since then, Curt Wild had made but two exceptions to his unvoiced rule, his silent and personal law to never allow himself to love or believe in anything: heroin and Brian Slade.
Both had nearly killed him.
Heroin, in some cheap motel in North Dakota, luring him into a fuzzy and blissful unconsciousness in the cooling water of a bathtub.
Brian Slade - Maxwell Demon - in a recording studio in England.
When Brian had turned his back on him, having some unheard conversation with another, the nervous, fluttery feeling returned and Curt's stomach did flip-flops.
"What?" he demanded. "What?!"
Curt wanted to break something - mostly himself. He had done something *again* to ruin everything. Had failed in some way. It seemed he was fated to be some lonely fuck up forever.
He wanted to go backwards in time and get rid of this stupid image he had created.
*Curt Wild.*
No one hurts *Curt Wild.*
No one gets to *Curt Wild.*
Load of shit. Load of shit!
*Everyone* hurts Curt Wild. Maybe if he could let them see how torn up he was--?
Instead, a string of obscenities spilled past his lips, twisted cruelly into an enraged sneer. He grabbed whatever was near and threw it, kicked it. He pounded on the glass for attention.
He could see his silent audience leaving and it meant sweet fuck all. Brian would not look at him.
His vision blurred and he let his image save him once again. Going crazy would surprise no one. They expected it. He was Curt Wild, after all.