We all know of letters that begin "Drear Mary" or "To My Sweatheart", giving deeper (perhaps truer) meaning to terms of affection. And so:
Misspelling For Poets
Sometimes creative misspelling
Can be literally compelling -
Then new coinages come to light
Because a word's not writ quite right......
For example, without intention,
I typed in place of mere "detection"
The more specialized "dirtection":
Or "To spot all dust upon inspection".
So, for hands that tremble in true terror
Of committing one more doltish error -
Recall, despite persistent perspiration,
That mistakes can stimulate inspiration;
The letter, like the person, which doesn't fit
Sometimes gives birth to great wit.
Monday, August 6, 2007
from the land of the gray
Every dog has his day
And in the dark, all cats are gray.
If the cat and mouse both are gray
How tell hunter from the prey?
By smell, of course. Mice smell musty, cats smell like rain-cleansed woods. And sound: When was the last time you heard a mouse purr? In the dark, in the night, in the land of the gray, present and future are defined by a squeak and a whiff.
And in the dark, all cats are gray.
If the cat and mouse both are gray
How tell hunter from the prey?
By smell, of course. Mice smell musty, cats smell like rain-cleansed woods. And sound: When was the last time you heard a mouse purr? In the dark, in the night, in the land of the gray, present and future are defined by a squeak and a whiff.
subspecies: broccoli artificialis (& nanotechnology trout)
Overheard comment: "In my daughter's kindergarten class the kids had an argument about whether there were two kinds of tomatoes, the ones that farmers grew and the kind that were manufactured in plastic boxes".
Tomato naturalis versus Tomato artificialis.
Ode to Health Food:
Give me soy bean burgers, unsalted rice cakes,
Tangy spinach for my midnight snacks;
Crunchy vitamin pill, when will power breaks,
Prized for the calories that it lacks....
Oh it's yummy, yummy, yummy
For a medi-coated tongue and tummy
Broccoli gurgles gaily in my guts-
Oh joy, oh rapture, I'm no blithering rummy;
I resist butter, beer and butts.
Tomato naturalis versus Tomato artificialis.
Ode to Health Food:
Give me soy bean burgers, unsalted rice cakes,
Tangy spinach for my midnight snacks;
Crunchy vitamin pill, when will power breaks,
Prized for the calories that it lacks....
Oh it's yummy, yummy, yummy
For a medi-coated tongue and tummy
Broccoli gurgles gaily in my guts-
Oh joy, oh rapture, I'm no blithering rummy;
I resist butter, beer and butts.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Surgeon General Warning: Eating Babes is Bad for Your Health
modest proposal.....
Nowadays, we're too health conscious to eat infants; all that baby fat would surely raise cholesterol levels. And, if we take a lesson from our ancestors, we could surely make use of the kids after only a few years of being drained by them - as menial labor in factories, screwing caps on bottles, or as house cleaners for working couples. Two, three, four houses per day, let them work from sun-up to moon-down. And when they keel over, kaput, dead, batteries drained, at age 10 - we can say that we've metaphorically eaten one child a thousand times, sucked all the juice from his flesh and soul until be could be no more.
Better yet, we could eat our golden oldies, a.k.a. golden moldies, a.k.a. senior citizens, a.k.a. social security leeches, a.k.a. Medicare moochers. Scientists would have to develop an especially strong tenderizer, to be applied before packaging, if their deltoids, biceps, trapezius muscles and untender-loins are to be sold as grade A steak to humans of discerning palate. If such a tenderizer isn't developed, the meat, gristle, osteoporotic bones and degenerate cartilage can be pulverized and served to cattle with the usual swill of manure peppered with antibiotics; prime cuts might be added to Alpo stew, with its "variety of meats for a canine's variety of nutritional needs". Then, in answer to the question "Whatever happened to Granny?", one can honestly answer "Granny, she turned into a real cow", or "She went to the dogs in the end". About the stocky grandfather, one may exclaim proudly "Yes, he was a real hunk" - as in "a hunk of meat".
Merchants and dieters might retort "Haven't you seen the latest version of Atkins? It's all the rage. One can gobble all the fat one wants, just stay away from that nasty pasta", followed by the jingle:
Baby toes, dipped in cheese -
Yummmm, they're finger-lickin' good;
Tender, more bound to please
Than greased chicken ever could.
When the price of beef begins to soar
And you must serve as host -
Lure kiddie to your kitchen door
And serve guests toddler roast.
Nowadays, we're too health conscious to eat infants; all that baby fat would surely raise cholesterol levels. And, if we take a lesson from our ancestors, we could surely make use of the kids after only a few years of being drained by them - as menial labor in factories, screwing caps on bottles, or as house cleaners for working couples. Two, three, four houses per day, let them work from sun-up to moon-down. And when they keel over, kaput, dead, batteries drained, at age 10 - we can say that we've metaphorically eaten one child a thousand times, sucked all the juice from his flesh and soul until be could be no more.
Better yet, we could eat our golden oldies, a.k.a. golden moldies, a.k.a. senior citizens, a.k.a. social security leeches, a.k.a. Medicare moochers. Scientists would have to develop an especially strong tenderizer, to be applied before packaging, if their deltoids, biceps, trapezius muscles and untender-loins are to be sold as grade A steak to humans of discerning palate. If such a tenderizer isn't developed, the meat, gristle, osteoporotic bones and degenerate cartilage can be pulverized and served to cattle with the usual swill of manure peppered with antibiotics; prime cuts might be added to Alpo stew, with its "variety of meats for a canine's variety of nutritional needs". Then, in answer to the question "Whatever happened to Granny?", one can honestly answer "Granny, she turned into a real cow", or "She went to the dogs in the end". About the stocky grandfather, one may exclaim proudly "Yes, he was a real hunk" - as in "a hunk of meat".
Merchants and dieters might retort "Haven't you seen the latest version of Atkins? It's all the rage. One can gobble all the fat one wants, just stay away from that nasty pasta", followed by the jingle:
Baby toes, dipped in cheese -
Yummmm, they're finger-lickin' good;
Tender, more bound to please
Than greased chicken ever could.
When the price of beef begins to soar
And you must serve as host -
Lure kiddie to your kitchen door
And serve guests toddler roast.
dream Dad
from a dream:
The dean motioned me to sit before his sturdy mahogany desk.
"Claire, We have a little problem," he paused and fingered a single piece of folded paper. "Not the usual problem we have with students."
I stared back, speechless.
"It's a letter. From your father."
I frowned; my father couldn't be writing letters to the Dean.
"To Dean Emory," he began. "Let me read it all to you, it's not long......dean Emory, I'm writing in regards to my daughter, Claire Kuvok, who currently attends your art school. I am her father, I know Claire well, her personality and her talents. Her gradeschool pictures were scribbles; her junior high pictures continued to be eyesores. Claire is not an artist. She is an engineer; she hould be studying chemistry, physics and math. She shoudn't number among your students, unless you accept every student who applies."
I paused a long time, thinking.
"We don't pay too much attention to parental complaints," the deam continued. "But I thought that you should be made aware."
I coughed, rubbed my hands together, then spoke.
"I'll just remind him that he's dead," i said. "That'll keep him quiet. He hates to be reminded of the fact." i paused and shouted. "Dad, you're dead. D_E_A_D! Remember that - dead! Out of the letter writing business."
The dean gasped. You mean that your father is not alive?
"He's been dead for years. Eight years to be exact. Who the heck wrote this? Let me see it. Oh god! It's my brother's handwriting."
"Well, that explains it then. It's a practical joke."
"Only one problem. My brother lost both of his hands in a land mine explosion in Iraq."
The dean motioned me to sit before his sturdy mahogany desk.
"Claire, We have a little problem," he paused and fingered a single piece of folded paper. "Not the usual problem we have with students."
I stared back, speechless.
"It's a letter. From your father."
I frowned; my father couldn't be writing letters to the Dean.
"To Dean Emory," he began. "Let me read it all to you, it's not long......dean Emory, I'm writing in regards to my daughter, Claire Kuvok, who currently attends your art school. I am her father, I know Claire well, her personality and her talents. Her gradeschool pictures were scribbles; her junior high pictures continued to be eyesores. Claire is not an artist. She is an engineer; she hould be studying chemistry, physics and math. She shoudn't number among your students, unless you accept every student who applies."
I paused a long time, thinking.
"We don't pay too much attention to parental complaints," the deam continued. "But I thought that you should be made aware."
I coughed, rubbed my hands together, then spoke.
"I'll just remind him that he's dead," i said. "That'll keep him quiet. He hates to be reminded of the fact." i paused and shouted. "Dad, you're dead. D_E_A_D! Remember that - dead! Out of the letter writing business."
The dean gasped. You mean that your father is not alive?
"He's been dead for years. Eight years to be exact. Who the heck wrote this? Let me see it. Oh god! It's my brother's handwriting."
"Well, that explains it then. It's a practical joke."
"Only one problem. My brother lost both of his hands in a land mine explosion in Iraq."
longing
And when the royals are feeling stressed
By popparazi and the press,
They long to be like average Joe
Who can freely come and go.
That Joe breathes sooty factory air
And strains in pain to pay the fare
The royals would not want to know.
For if the mundane doesn't glow
Where could blue royals long to go?
By popparazi and the press,
They long to be like average Joe
Who can freely come and go.
That Joe breathes sooty factory air
And strains in pain to pay the fare
The royals would not want to know.
For if the mundane doesn't glow
Where could blue royals long to go?
Soul Jam
"I promise not to hide my face, if you promise not to suck up my soul."
But the inside of this camera is already filled with too many souls - souls packed too closely together to writhe and wriggle; souls sweaty and gagging from the stink of so much perspiration, souls deaf from one another's screams. You couldn't squeeze another soul in, unless you let one of the prisoners out. But that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Not when the freed soul is also deaf and mad. Not when its muscles are cramped from such long crowding and its hot wet skin is overgrown with mold; such a soul might seek vengence, punitive damages from any photographer for the years of freedom it can never reclaim. Best, then, to let rotting souls rot; best to keep trapped souls in their cages.
Photography will be safe as long as imprisoned souls stay shut in, and picture takers don't buy new cameras.
But the inside of this camera is already filled with too many souls - souls packed too closely together to writhe and wriggle; souls sweaty and gagging from the stink of so much perspiration, souls deaf from one another's screams. You couldn't squeeze another soul in, unless you let one of the prisoners out. But that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Not when the freed soul is also deaf and mad. Not when its muscles are cramped from such long crowding and its hot wet skin is overgrown with mold; such a soul might seek vengence, punitive damages from any photographer for the years of freedom it can never reclaim. Best, then, to let rotting souls rot; best to keep trapped souls in their cages.
Photography will be safe as long as imprisoned souls stay shut in, and picture takers don't buy new cameras.
Temptresses are a dime-a-dozen
Dream Dangler
"I'm so mad at The Jerk!", Trish exclaims one evening.
"Huh?"
"The jerk! My Ex! El Stinko!", Trish croaks. "I was supposed to get my money last week - LAST WEEK, mind you! Well, this weekend, I called my detective agency and got them on the case. And ya know where he is?"
Anne stares.
"Wales! Of all places! If he thinks he's gonna skip out on me...We know his address now, and know that he HAS to come back on a plane either Saturday or Sunday. I'll be there, both days, waiting! My lawyer says -if I don't get the money out of him and he flees again, we can get a bench warrent on him; the moment he sets foot in this country - wham, bam, it's the slammer, damn you, until you pay up!"
-----
The next week, Trish appears in her usual attire - one of her exotic dark purple hats, with feathers sewn along the brim, a bit of "character" bought from a vintage boutique. She struts in her high heels and a short skirt clings tightly to her thighs. "You gotta show them some leg," she says. "Don't do the breast thing, that's too much, distracts them too much. When you do business with them, you want to keep their minds on business, but also keep them a bit disoriented. Get their hormones going a little, but not too much - then they play right into your hands; you've got them like putty". The world's top 10 temptresses spritz themselves with only a subliminal scent of musk.
"Well, the Jerk came through," she announces. "Caught him at the airport, was right by the door when he de-planed. Handed him the papers and dragged him to the lawyer's office. Signed everything - everything! He knows I mean business and that I won't give in -"
"Right, tracking him to the airport and all that, " Anne mumbles, "He's got a tough adversary; easier to give in than fight, sometimes."
"And he gave in on everything. This divorce'll be a breeze".
Anne merely nods and squints at the buses lined up behind the red light, looking for #61. Tiers of tiny windowlights twinkle from the highrises. The windows at street level glow golden, each vendor hawking a dream. Dine here and imagine yourself lady of the manor, doted on by attentive, efficient waiters trained since birth in the art of servitude. Wear this sleek red dress; buxom Brunnhilde becomes willowy Scarlett for a mere $99, without spending years in plastic surgery, charm school and psychotherapy sessions. One benefit of aging, Anne thinks, is that you're not expected to go gaga over every new fashion, not expected to play seductress - a relief to the world's wallflowers and to those who prefer serenity over power plays.
-------
The next week, Trish raves about astrology, and how it can be used to manipulate men. Using astrology, she's ensnared the best men in the city - a master photographer whom she hopes to make her new "mentor", and an entrepreneur whom she's "shown a lot of leg" and who now has her in on the wheelings and dealings for opening a new tavern. She met her latest heart-throb "Allen" on one of her freelance photographic assignments. "Allen's drop dead gorgeous", she proclaims; when she rode in the elevator with him, her eyes were rivetted on his cascading black curls, his fathomless black eyes, his jutting cheekbones. And, she adds, "He has a cute ass and knows it....Just watch him parade around the room - a model's strut."
"He's gotta be a Scorpio," she asserts, "With those intense eyes, nothing else. And I KNOW how to handle Scorpios; it's all layed out, strategy by strategy, in 'Love And the Stars'. I tell you, if word about that book got out, this planet would be chaos - everyone knowing too much about how to handle everyone else. That book's a real treasure; good thing it's not well publicized...Anyway, I tested out the chapter on Scorpios - winked at him when he was looking really intense; he got all bent out of shape, did one of those dance-in-place routines, a sure sign of a Scorpio. But, wow, was he ever cute when he did his dance! So now, I'm just following the book, working my star magic and reeling him in, little by little."
"Looks like he's already reeled YOU in," Anne chuckles, "You were sold on him when you saw his eyes"
"I'm sold on the book," Paula asserts. "Like with Dale - the guy who's opening the bar - the minute I saw that mane of curly yellow hair, I thought 'That guy's got Leo in him big time'. All Leos are actors of some sort. It's a fire sign, they're hot, make themselves seen"
"Well, I don't make myself seen and I'm a Leo," Anne comments, "Most people don't notice me. I'm invisible. And my hair - well, that's probably genetics. My mother, my grandmother - they all have this kind of hair"
"No, not just genetics, it's also the lion at work. You may not think you're seen, but you are seen. Leos have to be seen, find ways to be seen. The way to get along with Leos is to applaud them, feed them praise, a morsel at a time. Like Dale...When he's angry or down, I just feed him something for his self confidence and he perks right up, gets all golden and smiley again; the roar and sulking turn into a purr. That's the Leo. I just toss him tidbits of praise and now he's panting after me like a puppy".
"Interesting," Anne drawls. "But what about the smart guys, who figure out what you're doing? Maybe they just play along to see where the game's going. And what - uh, in every mugshot, I look like either a paid killer or an inmate at the funny farm. What if guys take one look, and run?"
"Not a problem when you know the moon sign, the rising sign, which planets are in which houses. That tells you about the deeper parts of their character, what really drives them. When you know that, you can be subtle. I can lend you the book, let you study it. You'll see, it works. Even the bearded lady can get a guy."
Anne shakes her head. "No, I'm busy right now, a lot of work I have to take home. Maybe some other time". One benefit of aging, Anne thinks, is freedom from shame and the need for pretense, freedom from the need to fake being tempted by the flesh; no one expects old shrivel-face to ogle the guys. Even if Anne, with just a few crow's feet on her lean mean assassin face, caught a guy, what would she do with him? Would she have to feed him? Listen for hours as he repeatedly asked "Do you love me? Do you really really love me? What do you love about me, oh please please tell?"? Answer to the call of his latest whim, just when she was beginning to feel settled? Relationships might be touted as the best thing since the invention of champagne, but Anne isn't tempted by all the hype.
A bus hisses to a stop. Trish, going places and with men to conquer, leaps aboard. Anne gazes up at the siloetted skyscrapers in this city of a million temptresses and ten thousand shops selling temptations. On this street, where everyone's a seller of dreams and sold on a dream, she waits for the #61.
"I'm so mad at The Jerk!", Trish exclaims one evening.
"Huh?"
"The jerk! My Ex! El Stinko!", Trish croaks. "I was supposed to get my money last week - LAST WEEK, mind you! Well, this weekend, I called my detective agency and got them on the case. And ya know where he is?"
Anne stares.
"Wales! Of all places! If he thinks he's gonna skip out on me...We know his address now, and know that he HAS to come back on a plane either Saturday or Sunday. I'll be there, both days, waiting! My lawyer says -if I don't get the money out of him and he flees again, we can get a bench warrent on him; the moment he sets foot in this country - wham, bam, it's the slammer, damn you, until you pay up!"
-----
The next week, Trish appears in her usual attire - one of her exotic dark purple hats, with feathers sewn along the brim, a bit of "character" bought from a vintage boutique. She struts in her high heels and a short skirt clings tightly to her thighs. "You gotta show them some leg," she says. "Don't do the breast thing, that's too much, distracts them too much. When you do business with them, you want to keep their minds on business, but also keep them a bit disoriented. Get their hormones going a little, but not too much - then they play right into your hands; you've got them like putty". The world's top 10 temptresses spritz themselves with only a subliminal scent of musk.
"Well, the Jerk came through," she announces. "Caught him at the airport, was right by the door when he de-planed. Handed him the papers and dragged him to the lawyer's office. Signed everything - everything! He knows I mean business and that I won't give in -"
"Right, tracking him to the airport and all that, " Anne mumbles, "He's got a tough adversary; easier to give in than fight, sometimes."
"And he gave in on everything. This divorce'll be a breeze".
Anne merely nods and squints at the buses lined up behind the red light, looking for #61. Tiers of tiny windowlights twinkle from the highrises. The windows at street level glow golden, each vendor hawking a dream. Dine here and imagine yourself lady of the manor, doted on by attentive, efficient waiters trained since birth in the art of servitude. Wear this sleek red dress; buxom Brunnhilde becomes willowy Scarlett for a mere $99, without spending years in plastic surgery, charm school and psychotherapy sessions. One benefit of aging, Anne thinks, is that you're not expected to go gaga over every new fashion, not expected to play seductress - a relief to the world's wallflowers and to those who prefer serenity over power plays.
-------
The next week, Trish raves about astrology, and how it can be used to manipulate men. Using astrology, she's ensnared the best men in the city - a master photographer whom she hopes to make her new "mentor", and an entrepreneur whom she's "shown a lot of leg" and who now has her in on the wheelings and dealings for opening a new tavern. She met her latest heart-throb "Allen" on one of her freelance photographic assignments. "Allen's drop dead gorgeous", she proclaims; when she rode in the elevator with him, her eyes were rivetted on his cascading black curls, his fathomless black eyes, his jutting cheekbones. And, she adds, "He has a cute ass and knows it....Just watch him parade around the room - a model's strut."
"He's gotta be a Scorpio," she asserts, "With those intense eyes, nothing else. And I KNOW how to handle Scorpios; it's all layed out, strategy by strategy, in 'Love And the Stars'. I tell you, if word about that book got out, this planet would be chaos - everyone knowing too much about how to handle everyone else. That book's a real treasure; good thing it's not well publicized...Anyway, I tested out the chapter on Scorpios - winked at him when he was looking really intense; he got all bent out of shape, did one of those dance-in-place routines, a sure sign of a Scorpio. But, wow, was he ever cute when he did his dance! So now, I'm just following the book, working my star magic and reeling him in, little by little."
"Looks like he's already reeled YOU in," Anne chuckles, "You were sold on him when you saw his eyes"
"I'm sold on the book," Paula asserts. "Like with Dale - the guy who's opening the bar - the minute I saw that mane of curly yellow hair, I thought 'That guy's got Leo in him big time'. All Leos are actors of some sort. It's a fire sign, they're hot, make themselves seen"
"Well, I don't make myself seen and I'm a Leo," Anne comments, "Most people don't notice me. I'm invisible. And my hair - well, that's probably genetics. My mother, my grandmother - they all have this kind of hair"
"No, not just genetics, it's also the lion at work. You may not think you're seen, but you are seen. Leos have to be seen, find ways to be seen. The way to get along with Leos is to applaud them, feed them praise, a morsel at a time. Like Dale...When he's angry or down, I just feed him something for his self confidence and he perks right up, gets all golden and smiley again; the roar and sulking turn into a purr. That's the Leo. I just toss him tidbits of praise and now he's panting after me like a puppy".
"Interesting," Anne drawls. "But what about the smart guys, who figure out what you're doing? Maybe they just play along to see where the game's going. And what - uh, in every mugshot, I look like either a paid killer or an inmate at the funny farm. What if guys take one look, and run?"
"Not a problem when you know the moon sign, the rising sign, which planets are in which houses. That tells you about the deeper parts of their character, what really drives them. When you know that, you can be subtle. I can lend you the book, let you study it. You'll see, it works. Even the bearded lady can get a guy."
Anne shakes her head. "No, I'm busy right now, a lot of work I have to take home. Maybe some other time". One benefit of aging, Anne thinks, is freedom from shame and the need for pretense, freedom from the need to fake being tempted by the flesh; no one expects old shrivel-face to ogle the guys. Even if Anne, with just a few crow's feet on her lean mean assassin face, caught a guy, what would she do with him? Would she have to feed him? Listen for hours as he repeatedly asked "Do you love me? Do you really really love me? What do you love about me, oh please please tell?"? Answer to the call of his latest whim, just when she was beginning to feel settled? Relationships might be touted as the best thing since the invention of champagne, but Anne isn't tempted by all the hype.
A bus hisses to a stop. Trish, going places and with men to conquer, leaps aboard. Anne gazes up at the siloetted skyscrapers in this city of a million temptresses and ten thousand shops selling temptations. On this street, where everyone's a seller of dreams and sold on a dream, she waits for the #61.
no news
N. states that "Chekov talks to [her] more than does Tolstoy", who tends to use literature more often as a political/philosophical platform; Chekhov's plays are snippets from the intimate aspects of everyday life. The intimate, "little", everyday bits of life probably reflect more of what's universally true for people everywhere; political movements come and go, but the basics of love, jealousy, greed, fear, loss, etc.... stay the same. And, when old political issues no longer mean much, the politically-motivated may not speak much to us.
And no news is new...except for scientific discoveries and technological innovations. Looking at the latest political story is like looking at the closest reflection of a grimacing gargoyle, in an infinite regression of identical horrors dating back to pre-history.
And no news is new...except for scientific discoveries and technological innovations. Looking at the latest political story is like looking at the closest reflection of a grimacing gargoyle, in an infinite regression of identical horrors dating back to pre-history.
quantum spy
A psychic once told you that your aura was especially small, cramped around you, its tentacles withdrawing. "Some people enter a room and instantly are seen, instantly command attention," the psychic said, "They are miniature suns, shooting plumes of orange heat that draw in Pluto and command the planets; their energy touches and moves everything. But you...." She shook her head and sighed. Your aura barely rubbed against adjacent air molecules, barely tickled the arms of your bed-mate. You were the unseen spider watching everything from its high corner, the natural stalker gifted with unwilling stealth, the historian and observer who (despite the protests of quantum physicists) didn't affect the observed. "You're doomed to invisibility," she muttered, "You of the shrunken, invisible aura. A social presence smaller than a nanometer - You almost don't exist."
Another invisible man singing the jail-house blues to walls-without-ears. A subterranean squirmer, writing blog entries for an underground without electric outlets, One of the non-existent, not even a cipher or a fraction of a figment in anyone's imagination. You are nobody.
That makes you an ideal:
Peeping Tom
burglar
spy
Another invisible man singing the jail-house blues to walls-without-ears. A subterranean squirmer, writing blog entries for an underground without electric outlets, One of the non-existent, not even a cipher or a fraction of a figment in anyone's imagination. You are nobody.
That makes you an ideal:
Peeping Tom
burglar
spy
peep show
Great turnout to the show, but no sales. The multitudes came; hundreds (Sorry, not millions) packed into their black SUVs. The streets of Torrington, usually a large town without major traffic jams, echoed with the blasts of horns. They wiped the dripping sweat from their jowls, cursed the blinding sunlight and burped as they drove towards the show, where the artists waited, hopeful but realistically cynical and without expectations.
The multitudes came, but they didn't come to buy. They came to fulfill family obligations: Aunt Trudy or Cousin Bob or Nephew Ned is trying to prove his talent, and family members must play their prescribed roles, read from the supporting actor's script and display the polite, encouraging smile on cue. They came for the experience of seeing art, much as they'd go somewhere else for the experience of tasting new flavors or hearing tunes or seeing the latest artful arrangement of merchandise on racks.
Maybe we should charge admission to the show, call ourselves "performance artists" who also happen to be selling a commodity. Charge them for the privilege of being spectators; charge them to get a peep at the stage-set (each piece of art, and the gestalt of how it's uniquely hung in a larger installation), and be in the audience that eavesdrops on artists' blather.
The multitudes came, but they didn't come to buy. They came to fulfill family obligations: Aunt Trudy or Cousin Bob or Nephew Ned is trying to prove his talent, and family members must play their prescribed roles, read from the supporting actor's script and display the polite, encouraging smile on cue. They came for the experience of seeing art, much as they'd go somewhere else for the experience of tasting new flavors or hearing tunes or seeing the latest artful arrangement of merchandise on racks.
Maybe we should charge admission to the show, call ourselves "performance artists" who also happen to be selling a commodity. Charge them for the privilege of being spectators; charge them to get a peep at the stage-set (each piece of art, and the gestalt of how it's uniquely hung in a larger installation), and be in the audience that eavesdrops on artists' blather.
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