[or my gauche soliloquies for push-and-pull
perceptions]
[underrated focus,
coffee stains, a window] Three little faces. Wild green-yellow-blue eyes, elastic moons
up-above. Coming to the ground, purrs and whirrs; they leap into action with
much elegance. Fluency, a different vignette, their droves of…unruliness. As
they play, an existence opens up in front of you, for them. And, from here,
unwind contents, squares, spheres. Unyielding symphonies from the woods.
Varicolored ideas to be communicable or converted into material, simply? Intrinsic thoughts
formulate fragments. And setting-ups, voiceless features. Observant hands and
the insight…in position. Black ink, paper, creativity.
Ebullient, they’ve
been. This triptych of little furs, cuddling-like them, against the horror of
the days — perhaps? And, oh, as to make you…touch eternity(ies). Imagining, wishing,
sketching. Playing with quixotic geometries. Unbuilding as if making circles of
flash recurrence, so the blueprint scenes. Ah, what is that into-a-self-sustaining-metamorphosis? A possibility. Tum-tum-tum,
a yumtum one, touché!
The gold-white lady
one meows, meows. There they paw, so voraciously the two black boys paw the
roof they live (in) (on). Months of imagine(o)bservation en bloc. Here and
there, searching for magic idiosyncrasies, may it be, I suppose… And no chance
to not surrender to their vigor. A dazzling-tumtum dance encapsulated within,
how is it so possible?
[a year now, Spring,
less-more] These three little partners. To feed, embrace with hope,
recreate. Lines of purple clouds pervade our horizon when evenings come close.
Also when neighbors extol their bunch of deeds as the kittens gravitate toward
countless non-shape intimacies. The on-the-laps, at this point we can
by-imagination draw them very accurately. Handful of coins is missed by those
frenzied-attack persons clacking along those unfamiliar alleys,
everlasting-like them all. Time to eat, to lick, to exist. And, quite
adamantly, to survive the sparks and flames. Such consistency, so theirs…the
trio, so mine-here, ah…
[hazy sunshine, the
sketch, mutterings] A roof over their head. Reality sprouts up against any wall…to,
to…dispel. Music means, literary means, plastic-art means. There are visual
storytellings, myriad-them. The search for the real, well-ha!
Artistic creation, a
plastic expression, the real. The real. An idea of such communicable asters and
disasters, and the very essential nature of reality. How vehemently it…pulses!
And startles you awake. Reveries can dance you to the end of anything — love,
art, life. Reality, reality.
R.e.a.l.i.t.y. A four-movement brush stroke, or the magic fashion covered real:
[1,
allegro-prestissimo] There’s a plastic idiom within everyone and everything, we sense, they say, who
wonders…
[2, larghissimo-piano] Three little cats live
on that parsimonious roof observable through your kitchen window as you
frantically cook dinner ludicrously tired out, late at night.
[3, vivace-allegro] Metaphysically, the
superimposed literary meaning from the would-read books still keeps alive your
to-and-fro delusion into expanding the days for all those waterfalling-beauties
you kept so within to moonshare, yearning, with too genuine a heart yearning
for joy and hope.
[4, piano-pianissimo] You, however, finish the
meal, wash the dishes, anticipate the piled-up stuff for your tomorrows, think
of the ones you haven’t kissed and the ones to really piss around once more,
muse over all of those little rabbits to still vomit up in life or truly over your
crystalline acceptance and understanding apart from any protestation
interweaving the little furs pawing your window with a collection of
reminiscences and plans and desires, in life as in fiction, and then, sigh…you
just open your notebook to at least fictionize a little bit [more] about…this multiplicity that is living beneath your windows of hope, (com)passion, and this extreme fascination
for the little furs.
Comments
Post a Comment