There were crumbs on the plate, more than crumbs. I threw them away. The nail varnish on my toes is chipped; the wild violet is now a bruise. The mirror has been half-cleaned and looks like a distorted image of itself. I snipped off the bottoms of my loose slacks since it is so warm in here and did not hem the edges; threads hang loose like roots of trees dried and dying. The shelf has been half-dusted, so the glass reflects the pieces on them differently – the ceramic poses beautifully and the fisherman in wood appears to be looking for catch in some desert. The paper flies. I rush to catch it, thinking that I might lose my thoughts along with it. I grip it like a seasoned pro and I look at its scrunched, hunched form and straighten it. It is blank. A blank sheet flew away from the many pages I keep. The words were there enclosed in other pages. Like cages they seemed now when I thought about this blank sheet that flew and got scrunched in my palm and meant so much.
Fragments mean a lot…I do not want completion, I do not want closure. I want bricks to show through walls to know how they got built. I want the pauses to finish my sentences and half-open eyes to dream real tears.
I want to remain unfinished.
3 comments:
"I want bricks to show through walls to know how they got built"
Yes.
Yes? And steel too.
Many modern artists don't finish their paintings to the point of perfection. They end intermediately, rather abruptly, where individual brush strokes can be clearly seen and their boldness appreciated.
Bert Dodson, in his book "Keys to drawing" insists on leaving the rough doodles untouched (not erasing them) in a sketch-work.
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