to smooth
to sweet
to sweeter
still.
See also: Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt. Virgil, Aeneid
Rough
to smooth to sweet to sweeter still. See also: Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt. Virgil, Aeneid A picture is worth a thousand words. This sign is no worse for the wear. Restrooms divided by gender determine behavior. Everyone poops. The "men" is attached to the "wo" like an appendix. This looks like a fraction. The woman has no hands, no feet, and no face. The Braille is barely visible in the photo. I don't know if the sign is tilted or my hand was. The restroom was to the left of the sign if you're facing the sign. I would like to go back and paint – give her a rainbow dress, say, and some awesome shoes, gloves, maybe a hat. Eyes would be nice. Ears, too. And a nose, maybe a smallish nose, since she's so close to the bathroom. I have to think about her mouth. She could shout or smirk. She could laugh out loud. Laughter, yes. Once she's got all her parts, she's going to find so many things funny.
Spotted in the children's section of a Burlington Coat Factory. Imagining a writers' conference where this is the swag. Imagining writers in their bathtubs working until the water gets cold and all the bubbles are gone and it's time to get out, past time, but the writers don't want to. Do these implements run out? The duck-shaped yellow thing must be the eraser. How clean do writers want to be? How often do writers bathe? The kid in the photo looks uneasy. Is she afraid to see what she's just written? Why are most of the words on the box in lower case? There's math on the box, including multiplication and conversion into metric. Do writers care about math? bath writers is for ages 3 and up. That's probably a good idea, although who can say what 3 and under potential is being squelched. Who are those creatures in the container next to the box? Agents? Editors? Maybe they are the readers, hopeful that what comes from the bath writers will be wondrous and entertaining. Maybe they want to write too but can't reach the implements in the bath writers box. That would be sad.
Usually I put the photo first. But there are three photos, that I took at the same time and in the same place, and somehow I find myself wanting to speak first. And yet, while part of me thinks there's so much to say about them, another part wants to let them speak for themselves. I find them poignant, annoying, amusing, appalling. Looking at them, I feel the kind of sadness that makes me want to shy away from the instigation of that sadness.
Okay, so what is it then? I think they look unloved. Their need to be freed from the supermarket, taken home to be loved by some family until their seams pop or they fade from the sun or the chlorine gets to them, looks so real. I know they're not real. I know they can't feel. But what if real isn't the point? This pair discovered my bird feeder a few days ago and decided they like it. Since then, they've appeared thrice daily, clockwork creatures, for three square meals.
How beautifully they blend in. The others – squirrels, blue jays, sparrows, grackles, woodpeckers, doves, chickadees, cardinals, blackbirds, titmice, chipmunks, and so forth – don't seem to mind them one bit. I refresh the basin of the birdbath faithfully. I have twenty-pound premium seed bags from the local Audubon. I worry about the red fox and the Cooper's hawk but we haven't seen either for a while (I worry about them, too). I try not to let the worry cut too much my delight. Like the proverbial kid in the candy shop, I am overstimulated, and utterly at home. |
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