She ate the last cupcake covered with halo pink sugar cream.
She extended her gloved hand to wipe her cupidbow smile.
She marched to the closet to retrieve her genuine patent leather shoes.
She crossed the laces and tied giant butterfly bows of black silk.
She waited anxiously for her Tiffany blue box.
She sat with the sun pouring down on her and the family Aberdeen.
Pastel wooden stairs are not the most comfortable place to rest when you are anxious for a gift like this!
27.9.05
law of simultaneous contrast
"I have blazed the trail; others will follow" Cezanne said.
It's rare to find painters like the neo-impressionists, who have such a clear idea of what they want; rarely have artists felt so strongly the urge to put their ideas on-paper...or like bloggers on-line?
There were to be no vague perceptions recorded approximately with "random brush strokes", Signac said to sum up. She used to try to blur her eyes in hope that she could catch the sun at the right angle on her plasma monitor...but it was of no use.
Random keystrokes were what overcame that usual 9-to-5 afternoon.
She was working on a spreadsheet.
This was not a canvas. This was not the theatre.
And she was not her mother yawning as she ironed...cursing the wrinkles out from her bedsheets.
The housework had degenerated her and led to vice. However I must point that out.
Neither the tree of knowledge nor the serpent exist in her world.
Something of paradise remains about her, even when she types, even when she puts on her finely stitched satin black dress, or when she has painted her finest art.
All the same, the fevers of passion. They are before us in the state of innocence of a quiet animal life.
It's rare to find painters like the neo-impressionists, who have such a clear idea of what they want; rarely have artists felt so strongly the urge to put their ideas on-paper...or like bloggers on-line?
There were to be no vague perceptions recorded approximately with "random brush strokes", Signac said to sum up. She used to try to blur her eyes in hope that she could catch the sun at the right angle on her plasma monitor...but it was of no use.
Random keystrokes were what overcame that usual 9-to-5 afternoon.
She was working on a spreadsheet.
This was not a canvas. This was not the theatre.
And she was not her mother yawning as she ironed...cursing the wrinkles out from her bedsheets.
The housework had degenerated her and led to vice. However I must point that out.
Neither the tree of knowledge nor the serpent exist in her world.
Something of paradise remains about her, even when she types, even when she puts on her finely stitched satin black dress, or when she has painted her finest art.
All the same, the fevers of passion. They are before us in the state of innocence of a quiet animal life.
21.9.05
4.9.05
1.9.05
pt. 1, rubber duck
She thought of how dirty things had become.
She cleaned the metallic sink until the beige powder erased her blood red nailpolish on her tired hand. The bleach probably wasn't good for her red blood either.
But who needs to wear a happy rubber-duck-yellow glove for protection when you lose all of your care-for-the-world anyway?
She cursed and was angry at the lack of shine her kitchen sink had.
It mocked her obsession with cleanliness.
So she took to scrubbing it after a long day at the office.
She thought of how dirty things had become.
She cleaned the metallic sink until the beige powder erased her blood red nailpolish on her tired hand. The bleach probably wasn't good for her red blood either.
But who needs to wear a happy rubber-duck-yellow glove for protection when you lose all of your care-for-the-world anyway?
She cursed and was angry at the lack of shine her kitchen sink had.
It mocked her obsession with cleanliness.
So she took to scrubbing it after a long day at the office.
She thought of how dirty things had become.
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