Let the accordion squeeze itself. There is magic in it, and exemption and stools. An emotion wobbles on its stem redeeming the mint with a monumental proximity. And because the tranquility we find in boiserie is sometimes freighted with mythology, there are luxuries fulfilled in the application of hand lotion. The intentions of the chisel are apparent in the sharpness of its edge. Fingers are more intriguing. I think the Fauve dots of a plausible insecurity may be entered into the lists of an insatiable crusade for conversation. That’s when I realized I was writing something.
My intent here is neither to attack or disturb but mount a Technicolor duck and ride it across the Martian plains in quest of an aroma I can fondle and explore. The duck would have to be large, mechanical, and stocked with groceries. It would have the look of authority and its eyes would be the color of nutmeg, its feet palmate and fluorescent. Flirtation is only part of the story. The other half is a museum in the sky containing statuary and gloves. It’s why these words are engorged with corridors. As soon as anything else gets written, it anticipates the pleasures of elevation, babbling brooks and quiet haunts. Romanticism, pretty much, with a helping of alabaster.
It’s only natural to want to crush a fork into one’s mashed potatoes and to create illusions of power at the dinner table. Invention wasn’t invented in a day. Meanwhile, the milk is boiling and the train is running late. If I were you, I would take a long hot shower and forget the true meaning of the word ‘property.’ There’s no such thing as property. What we think of as property is, at best, water and mineral rights. But these are abstractions, the stuff of law books and courtrooms. The reality of water is something else. Water is busy being water. Or mud.
Or at least a farm. It gets soft in the evenings and even the earth urges conference. They say that sorcery can be an asset but funambulism is a skill. An asset comes by bareback, a skill comes by crawling under barbed wire while being fired upon by Prussian mercenaries. Don’t worry, the bullets may not seem real, but they are. You may consider the experience to be genuine. Just don’t stand up suddenly to talk to anyone. In fact, if I were you, I would exit this paragraph altogether and go on to the next.
I once saw a smear of paint tremble like an equation and add something to an artist’s rendition of Dutch linen. This helped me understand the beauty of anonymity. The quiet dignity in the fold of anything. Even a chin. Especially a chin.
The folds of the accordion are a special case. No accordion is going to squeeze itself. That isn’t going to happen. Not unless you let it happen. Afterward, when we get out of the simulator, we may feel differently about the actuality of life, its kinesthetic pulse and general orientation. When the air leaves the accordion, it elopes directly with a miscalculation, and so becomes music. Manipulation has its place, but contemplation is the domain of the vertical, the beanstalk and the giant, the feeling of silk and the majesty of process.