Isolated Pleasure Distortion

Randee Silv
January 2016

1.0:  Charms, shears, growling skulls.  Moving into. Away.  She’s determined to reach the sea.  Running.  Leaving.  Coming.  Birds fight for scraps leftover. Digging. Shoveling deeper. Nothing.  Her looking is brief. She could’ve been washed away by shallow surf.

1.1: Green ghosts follow me. I follow them.  We agree to pause.  Turning sideways patterns speed to convert into repetitions. These could be roads. Roads recently paved from needless visits I suppose. Her doubts leak frustrating splatters that act like  exclamation marks. Secrets beg to be known but it’s almost too congested to hear them.  There are always stairs to climb. There are always foggy mirrors to look into.    Landmarks. Land mines.  Trained giant pouched rats will find them.

1.2: Falling.  So much is falling. Nothing to grab onto unless you stand still.  Frozen. Jetting colors speaking with blunt edges. Canyons. Cliffs. Crevices.  Jaggedly disruptive and three sided. Wobbling, I gravitate towards formations of bark peeling.  I recognize the burst before the image. The spark before terror condenses. He made it perfectly clear that paralyzed structures need to collapse.  His intentions for updating shelters are not static.

1.3:  She was pencilling quite happily.   Another was too.  Both very serious.  Almost too much for the surroundings.  Wrap, glue, tape: the invitation read. Pre-shattered fragments of unused porcelain were available for mending. She gently placed her proud contribution on the display shelf, photographing it from every angle. He must not’ve seen the casted fishing line hanging from one end to the other. If he had just bent a little lower, his hat wouldn’t have gotten caught; and if he’d wanted to, he could’ve journeyed far into the universe. The theme was life & death. There’s always the possibility that he was fooled by such an arrangement destined to correspond with a natural setting.  He did eagerly select rocks and began stacking. She came after him and seemed very indecisive about which one to hold, which one might free her from anger, from heartache. She kept picking one up, putting it down and finally consulted the text for clearance.

1.4: A woman born from a shell.  A child emerges from an octopus. Chin punched. Nose squeezed.  Powdered earth is thoughtfully gathered at nightfall.  Alone in her nightgown, she walks into a marsh, a swamp, an overgrown thicket masking quicksand.  Tangled wires far and wide wouldn’t stop buzzing with electrifying frenzy. Accelerating. Probing.  It’s all being monitored, each move, precision unable to obscure bleak vastness. She hasn’t travelled very far. Isolated.  There it was again. The entrance to the village. I came to offer my service to complete the circle.  Steady beat.  Tapping toes.  Horizontal lines not in sync. Concealing immediacy demands loyal attention.  What happens when it drops off the radar?

1.5: They’re eating awfully fast working to solve a crime. Diamonds. Opponents. The sound from bombings has been scripted in. Dividing. Divisions. Love has been  contaminated. Blood, tar, oil keeps pouring upward, never reversing. Gray & white, cleansed & pure, he accesses who he was.  He waits for the next cycle. Dust particles rain down.  His eyes open but he can’t see who has gathered to watch.  There is no applause as lights fade.  I don’t know why he wrapped pickles in fur. He told her he does widows & orphans.

1.6: Unsurprised to see an apple core taller than his hand, he lays down a carpet in a room without a house. She reclines next to stolen idols reported to have been pulled from peat bogs designated as advisors from above. They haven’t budged since we got there.  He puts on his boots and plays a late night round of cards. Devious. Scheming a plan. A jet plane heads directly for his heart.  There are no crowds. There isn’t anyone waiting for the phone to ring. A trick arrow lands but doesn’t harm. She straightens his tie. They quarrel. She’s dressed for flight with nowhere to go.  He points to the corner of a box hoping she’ll come closer.  Her back is turned.  Her long hair covers his tears. Diagrams + dictionary+ bar room portraits. There are no dancers in the window tonight. He asks us to understand. Laugh. Chuckle. Sadness is absurd.

1.7: I lay down on a cardboard mat distributed for relaxation. Don’t get up yet, he kept saying. You aren’t done thinking about capture. Blood dripping like red paint from outer to inner. He holds a coin between his fingers. Investment funds. They bubble in the beginning. Maybe you are right. By-products of two are invading. Touch & Go. I don’t know how they can cross the line. They should be protesting its arrival.  I am.

1.8: Multiples have been doubled and singled. Dark black on darker black on lighter black on whitened black.  Rugs. Shawls. Window shades open to a public dialogue questioning permanent existence. With or without, he wants us to witness his compulsion. Adhering, igniting, compensating. No matter how he documents accidentless collisions in the cutting down of bamboo groves, a facial expression appears. Unfortunately, they left before they could see it.

1.9:  Messages of desire & vulnerability written with household string and velveteen swatches embrace figures caught in slumber.   You could be them and they could be us.  Eerie but true.  Seasonal colors change for him every month.  The sun never seems to set and the wind indefinitely blowing. People sit reading books hoping spectators don’t touch.  She handed me a pencil to replace my pen.  Whites never lose crispness even though they have aged and lost purpose.  Not a picture. A story. Not a myth, nor an illusion. The meaning is the meaning. Maybe he was thinking about the purity of an autumn day. Maybe he was thinking about a collapsable table or a projection screen.  No, his thoughts were about staples, tacks and screws.  If it weren’t for the walls, I would’ve fallen into a pit. The temperature was set at 72.

1.10: One imitates the other and differences forgotten.  I can’t tell if they were islands emerging out of rough waters, close ups of manicured shrubs sandwiched between flattened clouds or predictions seen through a crystal ball from her front porch. He brings her flowers but she is not pleased. Something is waning.

1.11: Fluid flowing. Veins expanding. Opinions pulsing. Promises rotating. Identity haunting. Forgiveness swerving.  I thought he was waiting for me, but he was waiting for them. Inflated foil sacks were stuffed with foam instead of potatoes with barely a sign of losing air. Useless use of 360 degrees dressed up to entice, maybe even suffocate.  Gimmicks disguised as bad jokes can magnify hollow temptations, his, yours, if you step too close.   From floor to ceiling objects dash, not rush, blocking any ideas of escaping.  Bounce.  Bouncing.  Bounced.  Plastered, roped, tarred and hung. That’s the funny part, he told them, very convincingly.  Does brown = bland?  Does a rose = availability?  Does a swan = attack?  Does a streetlight = shakedown? Does a pyramid = lies?  Does a cat = sweetness?

1.12:  The stables are cleaned.  That’s what was scrolled on the sidewalk. 18th street-26th. Not sure if he was referencing horses or artists. He apologized and said that he had no good news to tell. They sat on crates watching being watched.