29 June 2020
The rats were back
last night, rooting around in the gutter; their feet were busy over my head, a joyous sound I didn’t want to hear. This
morning, the brown cat came by again, scooting into the garage
when I opened the front door. Light flickered on and off in a spider
web; was it the spider who pulsed like a lighthouse? A video of
thistle blossoms blowing on cement recalls an elementary school film
of ping pong balls bouncing down a road, except those had comical
volition. The thistle blossoms begin a story; two meet on a
lonely lot, and come together for an instant, but then the story
dissolves. Buddhist stories never go anywhere except through a trap
door. The main events are interruptions; distractions take the cake.
A man waves his AR-15, a woman her tiny pistol, at non-violent
demonstrators in St. Louis. They must only eat cake in that palace of
theirs; inside, there’s a wooden hiding place from the Reign of
Terror. They bought it. Tragic history turned to farce and then back, though they
didn’t shoot, as there was nothing to protect beyond their ears and a blade-perfect lawn. Go back
and remove adjectives; they represent attachment to a single
interpretation. At least pretend to detach from the Marie Antoinette
story, its reenactment in the American Midwest, updated only in the
citizens’ attire (pink goes with pistol; khaki with
semi-automatic). Bryant tells me I liked the second half of the movie
less because there was more plot, and I suspect he’s right,
except even simple actions can strip it away. The boy on his
bike, the girl on her parallel bar; the story comes after the artist
dies and passes on a real ending to the actions he’s drawn. The girl
completes her turn on the bar and leaves the movie smiling. Yet
nothing happened while they scrolled through the anime drawings,
watching themselves being watched by grandfather found dead on the floor.
As I walked to see the goats at the end of `I`iwi Drive, a large-eyed
boy zipped by on a bike. His parents said it was his first ride. When
I came back, the boy had thrown his bike to the ground and screamed,
frustrated by the hill. The arc of that narrative only repeats.
--Volcano
Details from The Taste of Tea.
Details from The Taste of Tea.
2 comments:
If the rats are in the gutter, how are they over your head? I read about that couple just now; I like your connection to cake & Marie Antoinette & the blade-perfect lawn. I can just see Bryant saying that & yes, he's right. That bike moment--"the arc of that narrative only repeats"--that is stunning.
Thanks, Janet. As for the gutters over our heads, the cottage is small, and the bed up against the wall!
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