Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Sport
Feathers molested her temples and felt treebark. The other Feathers was not less of a woman and felt instead a broken stalk rimmed with dandelion milk. The commentators loved the action and called for more melting wax. More melting wax for all those making judgments to coat their fingers. Feathers and Feathers did not look up from their square sand pit, and this is not a sport. This is a game of indifferent looking in which the Feathers have choosen to forget words. They cannot look upon each other's skin, and the judgments are made through microphones. The microphones are not held by the commentators; they are held up to the commentators' mouths by geeks in metal harnesses. The game is lost when it becomes a sport with points awarded. If the public laughing in varying distances from the square pit can let go of the need for keeping score like the Feathers have forgotten language, then the Feathers are allowed to look at each other's pearl skin. For each beautiful muscle they can name, once they have remembered words and chosen to compete, a spectator hardens into wood and leaf and looses his face. In this event -- and it is a sport -- Feathers knows she secretly wrote the book of rules when she was twenty-three and all the bones of her life began to melt, but panic alters everything. Look!
-In one of the many forgotten tournaments during the Fragmented Era, a naked woman reversed the current of vision. She escaped the cermonial pit by turning everyone looking into a tortured prison of guilt. There grew a forest and it was a cold forest that frightened tourists. If you are wondering why, know that every history that begins with a woman ends with a cold forest.
Feathers molested her temples and felt treebark. The other Feathers was not less of a woman and felt instead a broken stalk rimmed with dandelion milk. The commentators loved the action and called for more melting wax. More melting wax for all those making judgments to coat their fingers. Feathers and Feathers did not look up from their square sand pit, and this is not a sport. This is a game of indifferent looking in which the Feathers have choosen to forget words. They cannot look upon each other's skin, and the judgments are made through microphones. The microphones are not held by the commentators; they are held up to the commentators' mouths by geeks in metal harnesses. The game is lost when it becomes a sport with points awarded. If the public laughing in varying distances from the square pit can let go of the need for keeping score like the Feathers have forgotten language, then the Feathers are allowed to look at each other's pearl skin. For each beautiful muscle they can name, once they have remembered words and chosen to compete, a spectator hardens into wood and leaf and looses his face. In this event -- and it is a sport -- Feathers knows she secretly wrote the book of rules when she was twenty-three and all the bones of her life began to melt, but panic alters everything. Look!
-In one of the many forgotten tournaments during the Fragmented Era, a naked woman reversed the current of vision. She escaped the cermonial pit by turning everyone looking into a tortured prison of guilt. There grew a forest and it was a cold forest that frightened tourists. If you are wondering why, know that every history that begins with a woman ends with a cold forest.
One of the few thoughts I had time to gestate during the European trek that found me constantly but confidently dealing with crises, spoilt attitudes, naive girls encouraging eurotrash catcallers, those needing to arrange travel to S. Korea a day early, the intermixing of the brilliant non-apathetic freshmen and the miasmic cliques of older girls, kids who are mostly there to drink, uncovering new layers of friendship, lovers (well, just Amanda), fights physical and psychological, meeting one of those humans who redefine what life should be, walking, guiding, counting heads, buying a black Italian suit, eating gelato or bangers and beans, drinking bitter beer...
We seldom daydream of flying when the unlimited sky is spread above us; rather, when stuck looking up from the stone floor of a cavernous cathedral, the wish of growing maneuverable but aggresive wings consumes our imagination. The creative writing student with strict assignments soars where the writer set totally free leers jealously at the impotent paper. Children without routine fatten into lazy sacks. This reliance on boundary is so prevalent in our conception of existence that it might be the closest correlate to DNA belonging to philosophy. Shakespeare's cockpit cannot suggest with accuracy the pure nature of war without abbreviating its presented scope. To consider war unbridled is like trying to measure danger in a dream. Words, too, are glorious because they are imperfect in what they limit us to expressing.
We seldom daydream of flying when the unlimited sky is spread above us; rather, when stuck looking up from the stone floor of a cavernous cathedral, the wish of growing maneuverable but aggresive wings consumes our imagination. The creative writing student with strict assignments soars where the writer set totally free leers jealously at the impotent paper. Children without routine fatten into lazy sacks. This reliance on boundary is so prevalent in our conception of existence that it might be the closest correlate to DNA belonging to philosophy. Shakespeare's cockpit cannot suggest with accuracy the pure nature of war without abbreviating its presented scope. To consider war unbridled is like trying to measure danger in a dream. Words, too, are glorious because they are imperfect in what they limit us to expressing.
