Finish

Please don't scrape the table. The paint has yet to dry in many spots, and in most cannot stand a butter knife. If you must, please use a coaster for your beverages. That is the proper way to not hold a beverage while enjoying it. Beverage scenery. Scene with me this cocoa, it appears very warm on my table above my coaster.

Outside the frosty blooms attack our windows vigilantly. There is no time for them to resolve any personal family issues or speak allegorically, they simply must go, go, go. In the morning they can rest like dreams in the incorporeal sunlight. They never remember the next night their simple little games. Come summer they won't remember at all. A sad existence where one must simply cling, watch the subject. The frost makes an excellent special agent.

First, if you look and do not watch I must tell you to take again another look. This is not the time to consider, George, the morning we have not yet lived. Watch it, watch it closely. The day has yet to begin and you already think of tomorrow. Attack them with a sincere please, shake their hands with a fervent jest, then flee before they get a chance to question your sincere nature. People can justify anything.

We don't want anyone scratching your paint, your finish. Let them watch in awe.

Glittering Silo

I have no intention of just sitting here. I've been here a while, sure, but I get the impression you think I've been doing nothing. I will have you know I've been entirely taken using every function I can with this body, just not my kinetics. I simply have no use for them. Sure, breathing was a little difficult to let go of at first, but I got used to it. You simply have to start living asphexiation.

You should feel lucky. We are few. Comamites we jest, but nothing indicates we are really in a coma. we simply do not like to move. Or inhale. We inhale illustration. We exhale art. We drink crearivity.

Fires in my footsteps

An average day of work for the man was filled with several key components. Dividing the deep, returning the lost, and looking amiable while doing it. Easy as a thought, a whisper, a walk, a hand in the ill touched places. Of course, easy jobs make easy pains, and those are perhaps the very worst kinds. The kinds that everyone suspects and no one talks about. the day can continue with an easy pain, continue into the unmentionable night, until the moment finally severs and a man will be incapacitated. It is difficult to think of tomorrow when the simplicities of today are what weigh us down. They just seem so normal.

And that is perhaps the stigma of an easy job. For those who think dividing the deep and returning the lost seem like complexities, not even mentioning the lofty goal of amiability, we can change your mind with a few different verbs and nouns. Anyone could and anyone does. It is all how you spin the tale, and right now we are spinning it backwards. Where the ones with the small jobs, the easy ones, all think they are small people. Easy men. Easy women. The ones with complexities are given a wide birth. That they both bear burdens is quite true, but when the world is running amok with irregularity and the honored get to work in their honored way, we forget the juxtaposition it is to our easy men, our simple labor fellows, ordinary day.

Left isn't the only direction

Left isn't the only way I can spin. I can spin right as well. I'm unidirectional. Just sometimes, I think it far too much trouble. Hard to change directions without a clear reason and life seems so easy to maintain in stubborn constant. Then, one day, you wake up to realize that spinning left and spinning right aren't even a major focus of life, merely transportational skills you will need to learn how to wood work or walk or climb, and that even those things are just simple elements that let you sit in cozy places and read, and even that is only so that you can get knowledge so that you can do even more. Where does it end? Well, never. But, a better questions is where does it begin. Simple. With a quest for true love. I'm not entirely referring to the mushy lovey dovey accepting kind understanding overcoming love between man and woman, though that plays a key part of it, I speak of the love for all people, all knowledge, all emotion, all goodness. I am talking about charity. I am talking about the same feeling you get when you are eating warm tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches at a table seating only the most wonderfully eccentric and good people in pleasant jubilation. No. It isn't only seasonal. This is for all year. So is love. Not just the grilled cheese.

I will use this holiday season to tell you all I love you. Every. Single. One. And, may you enjoy the time you spend in a world like this. Where there are turkeys, pizzas, and spinning and mind-bogglingly fast speeds.

Rich content

If works of art were sentient the truth is certain. Writers and painters and sculpters everywhere would be making much less money. In fact, through raising fees and time spent we would be quite in the hole. Starry Night would be some tubbish spoiled thing that demands ice cream, The Lord of the Rings would be trying to pass itself off as over eighteen and eligible to LARP, and the David would be the pimp daddy of Rome. Of course, we aren't that far from the truth. Who would waste time with such a fruitless field as artistry. Aesthetics aside, the meaningful is vastly underrated, underpaid, and misunderstood. Let me rephrase that. We are losing money because of our art. Works that are born and matured and rarely ever make a return. Why, this sounds like simple foolishness. Who wants to raise anything that never seems to make a return and may consume our entire lives? Oh, wait.

All things considered I conclude I am in no position to judge the moral value of raising something that doesn't entirely make a financial return; sitting in my parent's house eating their pasta salad and transfixed to their streaming-conference television. But, if not for a return than why? Why create and raise something stiflingly meaningful with a life of its own and less regard than it should, in most cases, have for it's crafter?  This is one of those pseudo impossible questions that only horribly vague responses can answer. It means something, it creates something, Its return is intoxicatingly satisfying. And, when that life of its own webs and connects in most positive ways with the world around it we snap our fingers. We've done it, or someone did. We've helped it, this hidden thing, rise from obscurity into sudden, triumphal, grandeur.

The undoing

Examining the wall is a solid pretense. It resists even my glare in unyielding. I press my fingers against the cold cement and force them until I shake. It fights back like a bowl of jello, quivers, and then pops. Sinking in momentously, careful not to slow and die like carrots in some strange abstract luncheon dish, the world of absolutes passes behind me. I leave it behind. I can pass through walls. I can warp through substance. Life has no more hold on me. What I cannot do has no bearing, nothing but immaterial filters in my vision. I can accomplish anything, be anyone, go anywhere. Nothing can stop me.

By half past noon, however, I found my temprament stooping with my fatigue. In a few hours my first hunger pains began. For a fleeting moment I found food, and for a fleeting moment I was no better than a mouse--uninvited dinner guest. In the morning I discovered a desert is still a desert and my incorporeal is as real for my chums as it is for me. And then I knew it had to stop. That when you isolate yourself from reality you forget that it isn't your inabilities that will stand in your way. It isn't your lack of skill. It is your lack of existence.

Different shades of green

The park across the street features tall, healthy, trees. Their green leaves sway in today's sporadic weather. Up and down, back and forth. Wave hello friends! Wave hello. An arbor zoo. I see pine, maybe maple, and... that other one.  What a few. they close a good near half of my sky view from my seat near the window. They fill it with meshes and clashes of greens. Darker, lighter, but all green. Team green. They were out for the win ten decades ago, but you know nothing lasts forever. Now we contain them in blocks like rare specimen. They are (mostly) harmless, playful. They even let you climb on them. Kids gawk at their sticky hands and pull away in disgust relying on manufactured soaps to scour them pure. Just like that time the gum got stuck in hair. The tree shows no emotion from the messy contact. Tree's don't feel. But, somehow, sappy tears pour and somewhere, outside of the confines of this strange populace, a rain forest loses its head. Coincidence? If a tree falls in the forest can anyone


No we can't. Can they? Not according to the waiver we made them sign in triplicate. One copy for them, one copy for us, and another just for good measure. I mean, we aren't running out of paper.  A shout out for the trees, our stoic heroes. Arms wide open, ready for a hug. I use my paper in silent salute to you.