“You always look, but you never find (everybody in the world is bent).”

It occurs to the writer that she requires the creative assault to have at her on all fronts; one cannot rely solely on the frenetic arcade vibrancy of dreams, with their superior-quality enhanced palette of colours, filled to the brim with impossibilities and absurd characters; nor can one rely merely on reality, that boring black and white daily snapshot.

the day to day dalliance
of the minutia ballet.

A balance must be struck on the guitar string of in-between inspiration, in order to write the melody of impression.

A local celebrity/hero has died, spurring the city into the gallop of awareness and action: surveys are created and delivered by attractive caredowells, expressing keen interest in our opinon of the impression the deceased left behind; candids of him and his at various times in history are postered around; his contributions to artisitic and cultural foundations are remembered; his commitment to local and international communities and economies hallowed by every copy machine. The question is put: How should we commemorate his passing? And, also, how do you think his legacies will fare after his passing? Death is always the cheapest ticket to ensuring one’s place in the history books. He will be infamous for his humanity for a good twenty years, before passing into ‘Remember That Guy..’ obscurity.

If all people were lofted onto posthumous pedestals this way, I imagine the cemetaries would be obsolete; in their place, peace gardens and children’s playgrounds would go up; commemorative benches and rooftop oases would flourish, fertilized with the ashes of the deceased. Typing that out makes it look a lot more morbid that it originally did, scrawled in ink.

I am in a strange, corrosive mood today; over-exposing my love of semi-colons, revealing my tendency to view the world in stark black and whites, eliminating all grey areas. To that end, a loved one cautions me against ‘eat[ing] through any paint finishes’ with my acidity. This leads me to imagine the acid wash I can generate with my eyes, its invisible effluvium radiating all around me, stripping away the varnished facades layered over passers-by; leaving only their nude vulnerability available for processing.

The image left behind would paint only the most minimalist of portraits — most of them having laid bare their 2d natures.

I go east and then south on the subway line, following the concentrated chattel downtown to where we will carry out our chores. It is not enough to simply explain them away and file them under ‘the masses’, but on isolated days like today, I am the asp within the bosom of their anonymity. I can see and record their moments; note them here or there – reinforcing my belief that no action is so small that it goes unnoticed; disassembling their delusion that they are invisible.


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