Friday, 27 May 2011

Fruits

Objects focused: fruits poised in a red bowl placing against a black screen. Music sashays in: free jazz, notes drop in an abrupt curve at every bar. Figures silhouette on the screen because night falls. And the rare lights, traveling from the moon, sift through the somewhat worn curtains.

Lights slant on the fruits; their silhouettes thrown onto the screen- they imprint each other. The apple crookedly distorted into half, one in dark and the other in light. Angles and depth thus testified. Funny no questions are posed for the apple’s substance, for it is truthfully flat, as flat as red smears. With the aids of light the flat apple simply conforms to the tradition of concreteness- one side in dark and the other in light, a shape is virtually born.

The fact confounds everybody, of how the flatness extends and predominates. A hulking something shrinks into a blob then some turbid water cocooned tentatively in hands. A blotch the thing might eventually land in. That banana, a perfect yellow arch, who belongs to a clan of symbols and marks. A downy arm laid bare the banana is analogous to. All you music notes now bow and cave in the pit of that curve. Oh how I marvel at it I swirl. Blind and lost I lick the sonority to find my way back.

The music now bears a mellow tone. The story wheel spins. One of the ancestors of that apple once palmed off to the fairest hand. She stroked my stooped back, comforted me with honey words. A war was soon declared, in a golden city with gildings too sharp to dilate an eye. A validation for this beautiful disaster, the apple rolled, and into the mud it sunk. The trouble that ancestor stirred up was hardly any worse to another, whose skin left a hesitated bite. The woman was told to take a bite. She followed the instruction submissively, lips quivered with fear.

A long time ago a banana almost slithered itself into a 6. Wicked number it is, vile omen. That man who won a windfall on three 6s, where is he now? Dissolved into thin air I was heard. Another banana who made it an extremity by twisting itself into a spiral staircase. A beautiful formation it could be, but something dreadful always set in. Some murder was taken place? There was a vestige of goodness, nonetheless. Why, a mute girl was galvanized to talk again.

The slant light cracks smiles on each’s wrinkled skin. Those smiles can still go hideously for hours, not until the night retreats to its slumber. The fruits grimace at this photomontage world. Everything scatters about desultorily. Wine bottles and glasses tricked out from this higgledy-piggledy. Night dips in intoxication. Air forges into puffs of unconscious odor. However, if not because of the moonlight, everything is still flat. Flat but photomontage, how do pieces coalesce? Music swerves into an apotheosis of jabs, or shrills, or snickers. The fruits keep smiling. Light slants on them; their silhouettes imprint on the black screen; night seems static like the fruits.

A volley of footsteps marches near. Within seconds, something drums, and then something splashes in. Both the apple and the banana smile to their fullest.

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