Clocks and calendars texture time with undulating waves of numbers and labels--concocted, yet needed in a culture lost in its own construction; dependent on compressing experience into formula to be doled out in measure to stifled imaginations greedy for any drop of color within the grid. Moments pour past, unidentifiable in their stale quantity, separated from their source and purpose within the great ocean filling past and future. Only the Designer can grasp his mauled creation and pool the dregs and driblets into their intended pattern, rescuing them back into beautiful consummation.
Undulation - Word of the Day
1. A regular rising and falling or movement to alternating sides; movement in waves.
2. A wavelike form, outline, or appearance.
3. One of a series of waves or wavelike segments.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Tragic Non-sense
Once upon a time Knife was wandering across Table looking for adventure. One day as he took a shortcut across a plate, he encountered a spoon dripping purple goo. Being a kindhearted soul, Knife approached and offered assistance.
"Run away without me. Save yourself!" said the spoon, before contorting into a loop and moving on to another life (as a bracelet).
Impressed by the spoon's dramatic departure, Knife edged forward, cautiously hiding behind a glass.
"I seeeee you!" Chanted a burbling voice.
Knife twitched and looked around to find the source. Beyond the distorted curve was a purplish glob, which seemed to be bouncing in place. Unsure of his perception from his current position, he decided to take his chances and dashed forward, hoping to catch the purple monster off guard. A large, brightly colored label distracted him from his intentions for a moment during which something stuck to him with sudden and disconcerting intensity.
"I got you!" babbled the jar, flashing its neon Jelly label.
"No you don't got 'im."
Startled by the thick tones of this new voice, Knife twisted.
"It's my turn!" shouted Peanut Butter, yanking Knife away from Jelly's sticky shoulder. "When it comes to Jelly, the H. T. already et two you brute! It's just not healthy to skip my hearty goodness."
Feeling sticky and torn, Knife endured their fight for several more exchanges before finally giving up on understanding the situation. "Look, both of you. I'm a solitary blade and I intend to continue my lonely ways. So cut it out and end this useless bickering! Oh, and what's this H. T. you keep referring to?"
A shadow blocked the light and suddenly Peanut Butter and Jelly shut up. "It's Holy Terror!" They whispered together in awed tones.
Frustrated by their irrational words, Knife peered up into the shadow. A great blob reached down and grasped him disrespectfully across the middle. Yelping in terror, Knife found himself approaching Peanut Butter, who was spitting large globs of his interior across the table in his excitement over being chosen.
After a confused series of events, seemingly involving an encounter with sand paper and a lot of Peanut Butter's gloppy interior, Knife found himself perched upside down atop Peanut Butter's remains. "Help!" he whispered, gasping for enough air to speak.
Over Peanut Butter's edge, Knife saw Jelly weeping miserable globs all over the table. He could already see there would be no help from that quarter. All that was left to him was to perish honorably.
Knife sank silently into his grave, digging his own as only the best blades can. His final words were, "Must not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?*"
*Final words borrowed from Plato.
"Run away without me. Save yourself!" said the spoon, before contorting into a loop and moving on to another life (as a bracelet).
Impressed by the spoon's dramatic departure, Knife edged forward, cautiously hiding behind a glass.
"I seeeee you!" Chanted a burbling voice.
Knife twitched and looked around to find the source. Beyond the distorted curve was a purplish glob, which seemed to be bouncing in place. Unsure of his perception from his current position, he decided to take his chances and dashed forward, hoping to catch the purple monster off guard. A large, brightly colored label distracted him from his intentions for a moment during which something stuck to him with sudden and disconcerting intensity.
"I got you!" babbled the jar, flashing its neon Jelly label.
"No you don't got 'im."
Startled by the thick tones of this new voice, Knife twisted.
"It's my turn!" shouted Peanut Butter, yanking Knife away from Jelly's sticky shoulder. "When it comes to Jelly, the H. T. already et two you brute! It's just not healthy to skip my hearty goodness."
Feeling sticky and torn, Knife endured their fight for several more exchanges before finally giving up on understanding the situation. "Look, both of you. I'm a solitary blade and I intend to continue my lonely ways. So cut it out and end this useless bickering! Oh, and what's this H. T. you keep referring to?"
A shadow blocked the light and suddenly Peanut Butter and Jelly shut up. "It's Holy Terror!" They whispered together in awed tones.
Frustrated by their irrational words, Knife peered up into the shadow. A great blob reached down and grasped him disrespectfully across the middle. Yelping in terror, Knife found himself approaching Peanut Butter, who was spitting large globs of his interior across the table in his excitement over being chosen.
After a confused series of events, seemingly involving an encounter with sand paper and a lot of Peanut Butter's gloppy interior, Knife found himself perched upside down atop Peanut Butter's remains. "Help!" he whispered, gasping for enough air to speak.
Over Peanut Butter's edge, Knife saw Jelly weeping miserable globs all over the table. He could already see there would be no help from that quarter. All that was left to him was to perish honorably.
Knife sank silently into his grave, digging his own as only the best blades can. His final words were, "Must not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?*"
*Final words borrowed from Plato.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Moth
Against the day-bright white of my windowsill it looks like a misplaced leaf, trapped by screen and glass into a place it doesn't understand. Its twiggy legs cling to this broken stick as though comforted by its mode of transport to breezy, open skies. What does it think, I wonder, of the time it spent in my world?
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