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Jun. 24th, 2005 03:13 pmThis is why artists have it lucky, this is why they've felt the breath of something bigger and we all bow down before that and worship the myth. So easily in hand fall the tools of their own destruction. You only have to reach out and grasp, and suddenly the instrument of what ails you falls into your hand and you smile an awful wicked smile and you create, to destroy, to create. Put them in rooms, all the artists, chambers with scraps, and somehow they'll build up whatever you've given them into something to tear themselves down and make more scraps, and they're the original recyclers. Of pain, of hurt, of things everybody else figured out how to throw away a long time ago. Maybe that's why there's so many of them here, around me, hiding in the bushes and taking notes. Finding new ways to say things they were almost bored of, new ways to dredge the oceans for survivors and preferably worse. Building it high to watch it fall, and then clapping their hands at the noise it all makes when plumes of dust evacuate from the ground level, the dirt the only thing that made it out intact.
Once we built a house, you and I, and shaped it with our hands and then went out into the world to find new sparkling things to dress the windows and soft green things to drape along the outside, while the birds wheeled and called above us. We were only playing, and we knew it, and we smiled for the camera anyway before the tide came in. Tides are gradual things, and this I had forgotten. Now I go back, and I sit on the rock that's rough and firm and so solid beneath me. My feet grip it, and when the ocean rolls in I am safe, held up dry above the clamor. I laugh like crazy when the waves come in, when they meet and surround and crash about the rock and the spray leaps up to my foot. I am still on the rock, perched above it now. Goddamn it, though, have you seen how nice the sand looks this time of day? Soft and forgiving beneath bare feet, moving itself to accomodate my wishes and plans, warmed by the sun and filled with bits of treasure we can find under the surface. Flotsam and jetsam, refuse from earlier days. I know I like the rock, I know I'll be dry and safe and the sun shines up here, but most of the time I'd rather just clamber down and play in the sand with pieces of sea trash spread out around me.
Once we built a house, you and I, and shaped it with our hands and then went out into the world to find new sparkling things to dress the windows and soft green things to drape along the outside, while the birds wheeled and called above us. We were only playing, and we knew it, and we smiled for the camera anyway before the tide came in. Tides are gradual things, and this I had forgotten. Now I go back, and I sit on the rock that's rough and firm and so solid beneath me. My feet grip it, and when the ocean rolls in I am safe, held up dry above the clamor. I laugh like crazy when the waves come in, when they meet and surround and crash about the rock and the spray leaps up to my foot. I am still on the rock, perched above it now. Goddamn it, though, have you seen how nice the sand looks this time of day? Soft and forgiving beneath bare feet, moving itself to accomodate my wishes and plans, warmed by the sun and filled with bits of treasure we can find under the surface. Flotsam and jetsam, refuse from earlier days. I know I like the rock, I know I'll be dry and safe and the sun shines up here, but most of the time I'd rather just clamber down and play in the sand with pieces of sea trash spread out around me.
