Sunday, December 4, 2011


Because there is one color here and that's brown, or sepia if we must be specific, which we must because when you are stuck for words, get specific -- details, details!  There's the life in your words -- and it's where the light falls that matters.  You see skin and legs and muscle and pointed feet.  In the darkness, clothing and hair bleeds into background, into nothingness.  But it's in those midtones, the in-betweens that don't have names, but it's probably ok not to put a label on everything, that things get a little fuzzy.  Hands blur together, fingers touching or not touching, faces obscured, out of focus; shouldn't they be the focus?

No.  Body becomes movement becomes shape becomes art.  Take a picture.  Snap a memory of something you wouldn't remember without film and a lens because it'd be lost in the storm of moving limbs and thrown bodies.  Because we're all moving too quickly to be seen.  And you take a day, a moment, a class, and say explain it to me.  But you're can't -- you can't -- because the moment the words leave your lips they are sour with age, expiration.  And the subject is spinning away, blindly, like a top from a string, crashing into everything, speeding instead of slowing.  Never stopping.  Never still.

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