Where does a writer come from, where does a writer go on a Sunday afternoon?
(a.k.a. Every Piece Will Find Its Title)
To name something is to acknowledge its existence. However, my condition is more along the lines of a nameless shrub, just doing its thing across empty deserts. You can compare me to that five-second passage in a Western movie. A constant flickering of the mind between visual territories that seem very familiar, and yet, their effects, felt unknown. Lets begin by seeing to hear. Even though warm weather invites more people to come out, pass traffic lights in hurrying flocks, and shop windows in aimless wonder, the streets somehow feel quieter to the ear. There are certainly more people on the streets, certainly creating more noise. But this larger accumulation - and note that I am not so far from Armans Accumulations here - allows for better quality in hearing each and every little sound possible to exist in the same space. This does not happen in the abstract fields of a thinkers subjective mind; I am talking about real physical space, and not necessarily a soundscape either; what I see in front of me bears the name, grassy park. In such large accumulations, you can hear better the nudity of feet, the cracks on wooden soles of sandals, and the arbitrariness of color in falling leaves. I am thinking, what else flips and flops like flip-flops in the summer time? Donkey ears can also move in a similar fashion, creating a comparable sound to that of sandals on feet. Or donkey tails can serve the same purpose in vitalizing audio/visual pleasure. And then, there is the elevator: Sorry to keep you waiting. This recorded voice belongs only to a tall building with lots of windows to look out from, and not be able to hear. What I am realizing at this moment is an ultimate loss of taste due to geographic impositions; where you can hear donkey ears, you cannot hear the luxury of elevators, or automatic toilet flushes. Have you ever thought of this split in trying to make a choice of one over the other? After someone told me I am a better writer than a painter, I had a moment of choices to make, and I started painting donkeys. Allow me to cut back to our opening scene; as I read from Ashbery, I hear him bring us back to the nameless shrub in the western desert, and thank you, that is still me. Teasing the blowing light/ With its ultimate assurance/ Severity of its curved smile/ Like the eagle/ That hangs and hangs, then drops. For my smiling audience, the problem was never to discuss what makes sense to their senses, or what does not make sense. Their endeavor was rather to question, what my senses couldnt make of whatever what may be. For reasons unknown, we are reaching the limit where we have to decide on a not uncertain ending; we have to create a sense of having the ability to generate inspirational ideas, as some may like to call it. Has anyone yet thought of protesting Lucky during his monologue by throwing shoes at him?
I am afraid, it will happen to me before it happens to him, the poor unlucky fellow.