An Artist Among Animals

by Bandy

19: Rarity's Diversion

Rarity put the phone down and closed her eyes.

The bedsheets were sweaty and hot, but she dared not move a muscle. This room did not belong to her. The design was not her own, the swaying drapes too deep a purple, the ponyquins covered in some tasteless hack’s unfinished work. The walls felt flimsy, the wiring faulty, like it would burst into flames at any moment. Her pillow was a land mine. The luxurious Prench faux feathers were metal ball bearings, and the thread count was high. Rarity was not the kind of pony to skimp when it came to thread counts.

Somewhere along the line of endless preparation, she had turned into a child. Her usual cold confidence evaded her. The bravado of a full palette and an empty canvas painted an infinite set of failures.

These fits of artistry were going to kill her, one of these days.

She never felt them coming on, and only much later, when she had time like now to think back, did she realize their extent. She wasn’t crazy, but gods above--sometimes she wondered. She would do whatever it took to save her passion. The true artist had a set mind on a mindset, a force of nature--a force of herself--to force herself to completion. Rarity had a one-track mind--it’s just that the track didn’t always lead her to the same place every day. Some days, it led to the sewing machine. Other times, Noir’s safehouse. Other times, the open window, the curtains still wide and purple and vulnerable.

Where was she now? In the basement, finishing the final adjustments to her supplies, darting through the dark room, hitting her shin on the vanity, willing herself to keep the lights off, slinking into bed. The elegant curtains furrowed in the breeze. Why hadn’t she closed the windows like she should have? Firebombs could sail through on the breeze, or a griffon. Gods above, griffons. Porlly iffin. Iffin lion be a griffin, he be wary of the giffin’. If the griffin be a lion, he be wary of the lions--roar, liars. Once he has a mighty sting, and a mane, and leather wings. Flies like shiny little star and consumes it where she are.

Delirium, what a scary word. One scary word indeed. Burnt out sounded shallow, but easier to swallow. Why was she such a mess? Burnt out on art. Why had she reduced herself to Noir’s help? Burnt out on funds. Why had she broken in the first place--why were her dresses covered in a sheen of paste and diamonds? Delirium. The phone was ringing, but the line was unplugged. The EQUIS was calling and she didn’t feel like talking. She just wanted it to be over.

Why the dresses? Do this and that, do what you can, and then you’ll find that you feel grand. Why the dreams? Inspiration. Why the destruction? Inspiration. Maybe it didn’t even occur to her that she would sink into darkness for days at a time.This and that. But she could go on after the fact and keep talking dresses and funds and how important art was to her on a spiritual level.

Rarity wasn’t a spiritual pony, though she hoof-delivered her dresses when she could for the sake of not being spiritually lonely. Not like Twilight, not as frightening. Altars and holy books and never again a sacrifice--unless it was herself. All she believed in was art, pure art. Money? Money was for the career artists without true artistic integrity. Monetary art disgusted her. Pop tunes were radioactive and couldn’t be properly appreciated until they had cooled down for a few decades. The true artists died penniless!

The true artists also made art. Crystal hearts could buy gold fabric for ten lifetimes, diamond paradigms for five. An eviction notice couldn’t cover the rear end of a newborn foal. Made-up integrity for a made-up profession. When Twilight wanted progress, she invented it, made it up. Governments achieved what the individual could not, and art vise versa. When Rarity wanted progress, she made a dress and gave it away for free. Governments taxed--but that’s why you pay money to see the masterpieces of Equestria and not the Masterpieces: by Equestria.

Elitist! The elite! The government oppressed her with taxes while she dodged the zombified pubic and their radioactive tastes. The perfect balance of oppression and opportunity. A golden age was about to dawn--they always did right after wars--and she was about to be shut out by poverty. Money! Woe!

Money, the root of her clientele, the root of her propagation, the seed of her incineration. No money means no material means no marketing means no fancy dinners means no wine means no tea means no imports means no furs--furs!--means no brainwashed clients with horrible taste--but salvageable, with Rarity’s divine inspiration--salvageable, for the divine inspiration, and good!, for choosing her to save them. These ponies, for all their flaws, knew a true artist from the pack. The richest sacks of Canterlot and beyond didn’t shell out for the mediocre. Griffons paid more than ponies--but Noir wouldn’t be much longer, not with all his money. Revenge buzzed in her ears. Music--

The drape rustled against the wall. Rarity resisted the urge to scream.

Somepony started a record player in the near distance. Music rolled through the room, a slow motion shockwave of wind, and disturbed the covers. And the pretty pony princesses played uptempo bebop and all was good. That’s what the Gods said. Let them swing, and there was swing. Let them jive to the groove, and there was bebop. Let them rock and roll and rhythm burst a drum solo from nothing. So it went. Amen (spiritually, not religiously). And upon that rock they built--Jazz. Forget it. What professional would perform this washed up swing anyway? Old news. Scat was shit and God blew up the fucking Whitetail Woods.

But blasphemy. A misnomer. Four gods, not one--and gods didn’t care about the trees. But there was one in town--a big one, in the biggest period-clash in the entire town. Made out of crystal!

Blasphemy. What word Twilight used? Never loved herself, so no--she wouldn’t forgive the rest of them, either. Loved the ponies but held them at bay. Loved to have them over but never let them stay.

Never enough room for new art. Artists back in the day told happy stories. Then they ran out of happy stories, so they told sad stories. Then they ran out of sad stories, so they told stories that didn’t make sense. There was nothing for art now but the past. Maybe that's why artists are all so sad. They're in the business of saying things, and they've run out of things to say.

The music picked up, faint but pulsing. Let’s go sinning, it’s so good for you, let’s go sinning, where the skies are blue, with the sin, prisoner, artist, feel as free and happy as you’ve never been. Swing your hips and knock over your shit and off to the races we go--to go sinning!

And she’ll be. But what sin? The one she shared? A moment of weakness to be kept out of public records forever, didn’t exist--worse than didn’t exist, negatively unexisted and destroyed more of her precious time? Totally happened, but god--s forbid, snitching is so blasé. Why should it have happen, when it might as well not? With the inventive curse we sin and it’s. It’s. It is. Back-stabbers, clearing the shelves of blood and dust and starting fresh. She just wanted it to be over.

And sin for Rarity and a sin for Noir, sin and let’s imagine you’re safe, run away in a million ways, lock up your doors but keep the windows open. Rarity did not need to be saved or sinned over. She was an artist, a real mare, didn’t need to be sinned over, she was fine, she was fine all by herself. She was fine, all by herself and her ponequins and all the jewelry and don’t move and sitting still your head’s on a land mine she had herself she was okay she was fine she had the world on a string wrapped around her finger and she was going to keep her house and she would sleep in this bed again only then she would be able to afford real pillows with a higher thread count

and more ammunition to place under her head. Noir insulted her artistry with his--his. Thinking she needed money. She was the most fanciful fucking mare in the history of fanciful mares. Or did she? Her art was so good it was banned. Maybe she’d rat on Rarity, too.

Rarity served two masters, The Four, that is, the goddesses of which Twilight was a quarter, and art. Twilight, Rarity didn’t even know who she served, besides Celestia. Maybe Rarity really was a needy greedy snake. Noir destroyed a part of her immortal conscience because little old Rarity couldn’t handle the stress of an artist’s fate--well, she god damned could, thank you very much. All the money could go straight into her tea so she could drink it, absorb its essence, breathe it out, shit it, fuck it, money, she needed it, fuck it, she needed the high thread count, Rarity The Most Fanciful Fucking Mare in All the Land needed the higher thread count, she needed art, she needed her pillows to feel more like pillows and less than landmines

if she stayed quiet they would only serve her own self interest, see, it’s failing, she’s failing, she’s if that’s what her family would have wanted maybe they shouldn’t have been so successful given her so much money. Now she could just let it happen, like she wanted to just

with the

land mines

art could be pure as her virginal spirit and her coffers black and tapped like the phone line , if she just sat back and let it happen, she could

later need to call the police and tell them how horrible she felt, listen to some music. They had, what’s the name, therapy with music, no name, but a beautiful thought. Art heals. That’s all she wanted. Heal the self-image, heal the soul. Make a pony in a dress feel sexy. Addicted to feeling artsy turned her on, revved her proverbial sewing machine. Feeling sublime and helpless and pinning it on the whole world, they just didn’t understand her, just didn’t get it. They’d get it after she died, probably. Or a few years after that, or that, or that. They’d look at them in museums and marvel. Nopony could ever wear them again for fear of damaging it. Protesters would target Rarity dresses to hurl paint at. The beauty! All that work and effort, all the dedication, the years of prison time for damaging a historical artifact, all the love in their hate! She would eat it up. Gobble it up, slam it down like a shot of fireball

sails in the darkest sea, one two three, spinning, sinning,

felt a fear unlike any and the floorboards creaked so that was all the alarm she would need unless god s came through the window floating on a beam of light, but she would notice that. They’d chant or something. She’d go to hell--did Pontius Pilate actually go to hell? Nobody ever said. He washed his hands and then disappeared, growing old between the pages of the holy book, waiting

But it changed on her. up and changed. Not her fault, but her consequence. And some change all that money in sacks just sitting there. Any real artist would have burned it like forest fire sinking to the floorboards the land mine off her pillow diving deep into the pits of what nothing to fear, just her imagination into the heart of her incompetence, her failure artist sham fuck-up. A mare of many hats with many hats to wear, has neither time to see the sky or really even care. her fault

The phone

Blue of blues, gods of gods, amen heretic blackest night tomorrow the sky would be blue, this much she knew. her fault for waking up her fault for ratting

pick up the phone

Nothing much about it but fabric make a sketch or two in a fit of artistry do it kill yourself forget about the sketches a give yourself up give up yourself like you did Noir

To be freely associated with that which had had had had had would finish her. Sketches on paper but she only had her hoof and s nothing the folds of thread count-oriented furniture story purchase

To be truly immortal you have to die first only then

you’ll be seo secxx sexy

when you die and you’re an artist keep the window open not to forget how you this you wanted this to be over

want this

i

Rarity fell asleep.