SCulptures

So, howsyabeen, Be(b)Ra…/ Cool. Yoself… / Not too bad… / Sounds good[1]

Didn’t expect to see you at this wee hour… / Yeah, sometimes I surprise even megoodself, if you catch my drift…[2]

Guess so… / What brings you here and now at any of their mutable instances…?[3]

Been watching a movie from the other side of the screen…takin it EZ, you know…when, suddenly, I found myself engaged in the activity that by no standards can be defined as merely watching…doyounowhadamsayin…[4]

Guess so…like you were acting, too, or something…[5]

Not too sure I would call it that…more like not being able to control the extent of passion with which I was acting as a distanced spectator…[6]

What did you do when you found yoself in such an awkward situation?[7]

I guess I loved it.[8]

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[1] A look back—up! put me in a weird phantasmagoric scene…Feels like swimming in a sea overpopulated by sculptures. They have human shape. Each of them has a body, a head, and extremities. But they don’t move. They inhabit the waterless sea, exercising their decorative presences in a calmative way resembling exhibits in the Egyptian section of a prestigious museum.  They all strike the same pose. The legs are slightly spread, one behind the other, the way a human would position his or her body in an act of walking. Only no walk occurs. Instead, their feet are firmly fixated to the marble floor of that museum-like architectonic grandeur. The back straightened. The neck, like a porcelain crane, gently lowered, helping the head to direct the eyes towards the object of observation.

[2] How many eyes one could detect in that strange magma of a human sea is beyond human capacity to couple and reconcile the mathematical and the ocular. Anyroads, regardless of the number of heads –multiplied-by-two-equals-what!, a look at them fills one’s heart with the dread from the onset of civilization when all that populated the planet saw the creatures that happened to be there at the same time solely as a potential prey or, alternatively, as the executioner in those endlessly enchanting energy flows and matter cycles. Interestingly, the sources responsible for such a feeling have no clue about the effect they make on the environment. All they do is—stand.

[3] That hypnotic atmosphere exudes a sense of being sucked into an eddy of a cyclone’s eye. Only the cyclone is a petrified version of the eruptive commotions long over and buried in the remnants of their own deadened ghosts. That catatonic vibe occupies the space of those now’s & here’s in the way that evokes a hair-raising scream of the sun being born on the first day of civilization, whenever it was. And wherever. It sets the mind in a hallucinatory state in which the presence of so many organs of vision paradoxically translates into no sight at all.

[4] Hardly can one resist the urge to imagine the object of  that sightless observation. Especially that  all the right arms, uniformly bent in an obtuse angle, seem to be supporting the effort of the hand…Apparently holding something. Uncontrollable is the curiosity aroused by such a sight. One would project one’s eyes into that mysterious object, project oneself into the hand holding it, whatever it is. Transform oneself into a portable item, an entity that can be held by a hand observed by visionless eyes. Mastery of mystery. Or something like that.

[5] That sensuous psychedelia mobilizes the thought the way few things can. A mental hurricane of short-circuited neuro-transversals electrifies the perceptiveness and magnifies the sensation to experts in eerie experiences better known as ye historic catatonic dawn. The agony of suppressed hysteria provoked by the elusiveness of the unknown reaches an unbearable intensity. Helplessly torn between the inability to, on the one hand, guess--let alone picture-- what that most intriguing of entities could be, and, on the other,  an unstoppable impulse to continue trying the impossible, ideas are banging on the heavy duty walls of their confinement.

[6] Banging like wild beasts trapped and aware of their own prospects. And banging still. When, all of a  sudden,  light resembling that of the screen meets the curiosity-ravaged sensor. To its uttermost surprise, it turns out that the light, actually, is coming from a screen. More precisely, a screen on a cell phone. It illuminates the face towards which it is directed with a touch of life whose effect on the observer is causing its face to look like this:

[7] A look into the inside of the myriad crania hammers an image on the retina that arrests the train of thought with an intention to relieve it from the strenuous investigation into what experts in anxious living call spekki sight. And yet, unlikely are the ways in which the imagination responds to benevolent sensory input. The faces bathed in the electronic aura send vigorous impulses to the imaginative engine. It reveals the looks of the present figures being of the approximately following form:  .

[8] I was like WOW! Instantly, I reacted mimicking an unrestrained emotional volcano of a spoiled toddler: I threw the cell phone I was holding. The decision that I knew I was going to regret as the cold of the picket was invading my skin 

through the leather of the glove.