30 November 2018

A Stack of Pickled Cards, It's Hearts

by Andrew

I lift the brush almost in fright, scared of what I'll write. The fear, however, is different than it only just recently was. It's more awe now. When before I was scared to sculpt because I knew my painting would be disappointing to my strict measure-of-quality—whatever that is, only my eye can tell me, an innate feeling to which I've learned to listen.

It's a culmination, a cauldron, a pot of witch's brew, a conglomeration, coagulation, a mélange—3 syllables you have to say it, like. I've absorbed it all, all the impressions, the paths which I wittingly & un-wittingly (mostly) tumbled down. There's nothing left to read,—thank God!—there's nothing left to practice. Burn all the books, they all come from me now.

I'm a bottom-dweller, I realized yesterday sat here thinking, listening to the traffic like waves on a beach, soft Goa, the porcelain sky, a sucker-fish. Greedily I nibble at all the delicious algae on the side of the tank, all the rest of the fishies turned-over, empty-eyed in the stink. If you poke me I burp,—my A-B-C's—like Miss Reeds used to make me, snatching me from play, building with some blocks some vehicle or another, plotting my escape, pretending then. Flop me over on my side & I snore like a baby with a diaper full. A thumb in the mouth, a thump in the pants, & it's already 14:00 on a Friday.

A school-bell rings & the hallways explode with activity—the St Mary's dance, happy feet. A bus comes barreling down the street, Sixth I think, it'll clip you—be careful!—if you're not paying attention. An eerie silence surrounds the half-dead, (squids drew by David with a Portuguese accent on a napkin) the ghost of Technology. Like a donkey dangled with a carrot on a stick, most march ahead—always! always! it never ends, get those feet callused nicely, yes! yes!—their heads burried in their smart-phones. A squirrel braves crossing the road, gets caught, smashed, & splattered, like a dropt watermelon, a turtle under a tire. No one else is even phased. Did they not hear? Did they not see?

So you learn to speak Aegyption, you might as well, in massive quantities. And you bark in the street. For a second, there, you had them fooled, your wardrobe, they thought you had money. It looks so clean! but alas, just another of those insane, sleeps in the bushes, showers by the dew of morning, skin-steaming in a field full of orange & mint.

Another stock-market collapse & their parents come to pick them up in Hondas. It's time to get a job, now, Stanley—the tiger! Pull-up those socks, they don't even need flipped to snore like children—it's just natural, like breathing.

Like connection, how we need it like ayre. My goodness, I'm so sick of saying. That Connection is Communication is Creation, the expression of the divinity-side of our nature—the holy trinity, plant, animal, divine, vegetal, sensitive, & rational...If it's hampered, it creates a dissonance.

Which is probably my most favorite of the buzz-words. It's promising to see them seem to be increasing, the honey-money. While the bees die in this hint of Spring early-Winter, 17 Celsius, a shock to the system. The larvae spawn, but they get frozed again. It comes with a sigh, the sting. But a piece of pickled spinach in the Sun with a splash of mustard should do the trick nicely, moldy fingers of Apollo, the mini-mus, they generate from the pile pestilence. Oops!

Meanwhile, it's straight sewer-water for me. A fresh goblet down the gullet,—it's so delicious!—but it animates my feet & I get to kicking like a jack-ass. Hearts is trump though.

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