Two 2-dimensional curves – up down diametrically asymmetrical, colors opposed, unnatural, characitured – animate a wily well and arouse weather-worn wishes. Art stands, still in the land of pomegranates, full and sleak on branches overhanging an arched narrow way, peopling public places where anyone save the sojourner is welcome to grasp his fill. He taunted, she flaunted, a flat pane, a portal to pastless nostalgia.
I imagine first paints as some miry clay or drying sediment that settled on shore or sun-soaked stone, easy to finger and smear on sheared rock and: Voila! Is this canvas covered with oils and the particulate necessary for neon and slate so different?
My eyes drank deeply of yielding and resistance and hope that is always nipping as I walk away. I walked away and eventually home leaving a material work, an ownable thing, displayed for sale, leaving it for another’s overpriced purchase, perhaps. I won’t have what was meant to be, though the temptation weighed on me with obnoxiously sincere disappointment.
Why want what the whirling waters diminish to dry deposits? I seek a living stream sustained within a well-springing source. There may be gravel leveled low and silt kicked by the winged waves, but I will be lost in silver flashes under lashing, oxygenated eddies.
Rippling waters sing me to sleep as I drink deeply from her pristine pools. She flows over ears and eyes, depriving nerves on her way through my chest. She caresses my toes, leaving me behind to be left behind always. The constant is a kiss of reminder that I can never have what will only be. It slips through my fingers. I see hope coming back to me as she moves on, still moving. This I can hold for now.