Untitled (Nine Minutes)

Something is lifting off under its own velocity. The rate of spin is bound to affect the trajectory. There is but little choice in these affairs; we must accept the consequences of our trajectories. Collisions, explosions, impacts--all these things are in the realm of earthly affairs. Which is perhaps why the idea of an angel with a gun is still interesting to me.

Small legs scissoring across the city--like someone treading water while the scenery rolls below them. Run, now, and pay later. This is the time when we must put aside these things--take our inhibitions and put them to one side, like a watch on a bedstand.

The eye will seek its own escape, make no mistake about that. Why do you think the damn things are tethered to the inside of our head? They'd cut out the very first chance they'd get, otherwise. As it is, they're always looking for that way out--all the time. Sometimes, the particularly attractive, cavalier or horrifying can capture the eyes and leave them unable to look away, but that is the privilege of a visual elite. A visceral cadre.

All the curtains are closed on the balconies, an attempt to shut away the sunlight. It makes you wonder why we close our curtains to the night, doesn't it? Is it just to shut out the awful example of darkness?

Seductive landscapes strolling about before my line of sight. Men are angles and women are curves--that's the way it should be. Although one has to acknowledge how much more seductive curves are when made distinct by angles (the picture framed) just as there is probably something to be said for a curve that can bring out in sharper contrast the male angle. And between these two, the hermaphroditic line. Sexless and yet containing within it the possibility for all genders. The ur-clay from which our world egg was laid. (Forgive me, Melissa). Capillaries sweeping through the night like renegade gondoliers, flanked by the flash of fireworks and the dulled illumination of the concussion.

--July 3, 2001
7:34 a.m.