Her Eyes Wide Not Looking at Anything in Particular
This
painting looks better in the mirror. This painting looks better after sunset,
the horizon still on fire, still brilliant and red. There are mountains. Can
you see them? Blue mountains in the distance holding up the red, brilliant in
its need. Can you see baby Bacchus getting his evening meal? He is hungry, he
drinks eagerly from the dish. What I like is the wine-sprite in the background,
a wreath of green leaves on his tender head. What I like are the handsome young
men on their knees squeezing grapes into juice. I am drawing a picture for you,
simple and neat. Can you see it, dear boy? Can you trace the quiet beauty of
nature? It is like a footprint melting into a pallid sky. It is a painted story
of St. George and the dragon. I will play tragic for you. I will play dead,
invite the flies to buzz around my face as you draw the scene on the palm of
your hand with a red ink pen. We will invite the public, charge a hefty
admission. Have you a better suggestion?
I
know what you think but they are harmless. They wander around in a hundred
different directions looking for gourmet coffee. We will tell them it is French
art. We will say the artist has studied in Italy, that he has learned to unite
the beauty of nature with the beauty of people. You believe the people are
beautiful, don't you? You believe in swimming naked, your palm dripping red
through the water? What I like about French art is that it does not speak of
wanting things, of infinite loneliness. Bacchus does not speak of memories.
Bacchus does not speak of perhaps learning from a fatal past. This painting
looks better with a fair maiden on her knees. Around her is a clouded blue sky
and a Frenchman painting Italian landscapes, exactly the right background for
her moody features, exactly the right background for plenty of talk about
sexual gratification. I know what you are thinking but there is no special
devotion on her face, she is merely thoughtful; more directly impacted by her
problem than you, forever correcting, forever a red flower in the palm of your
hand.
Boxcars and Bottlecaps
It
is almost time for the show to start. It is almost time for the peanuts and the
popcorn and the crowds. Can you hear the noise? Here is the ringmaster, humming
into his megaphone: soon she will not be able to breathe; soon she will walk
around asking the children if they have seen her tiny elephant and her red
umbrella. The tickets are selling fast enough, there is money to be made. This
is America; this is the land of concrete and barbed wire. Here is me putting on
make-up, making my nose look like a little round ball. Here is me making myself
a new face for myself, a big red mouth going up one side and down the other.
The parade is on its way down the street. Here they are now, throwing candy on
my behalf; the people are clapping, they are waiting to see what funny things
the little clown will do. They want to see me make silence out of an elephant,
pink cotton candy from a red umbrella. They are selfish like that. They want to
see me disappear, feeling very happy, feeling very full as they walk to their
cars; creating a sense of home, creating a new face, painted white, a thick
black line from ear to ear.
La Tela de Araña
Some
spiders live under the water, building tents in the shape of a bell. They carry
down air, trapping it under, trapping themselves under their little bell-shaped
tents for days at a time. They come out for food. They come out for light. They
do not dig holes in the ground. They do not build webs from one branch of a
swaying tree to another. They make no notice of their footprints in the sand.
They trace nothing, not their own path, not their breath in the air. They make
no notice of romance or apathy. They do not know, they do not care, they do not
think. They swim down, they swim up; they catch bubbles of air and take it
below. They have no voice. They feel no embarrassment or stupidity or
foolishness. They do not record new phone messages in hopes of listening to the
heavy voice of a lover calling to say goodbye just one last time. They are
spiders. They have adapted to the environment. The female lays her eggs and
dies. She has no memory. She has no way of erasing. She is quiet; she says
nothing; she was never there.
