The Ghosts Of Uncertainty

It's true what they say of vermilion, that the longer it can express the willingness to heave itself into "The Glass of Wine" by Johannes Vermeer, or “Lucca Madonna” by Jan van Eyck, the further will it extend into our lives scrounging for the vapors of tendency. For these are the perfumes of color, garden variety abstractions endeavoring aloud to solicit the attention of a greenhouse grandmother or the Air Force pilot bending to smell a rose before going on a dangerous mission. Sounds more like Norman Rockwell to me. Oh well. Here. Have some eggnog. It’s red because I’ve been talking about vermilion and all things red, all things burgundy and carmine and crimson effervescing in our emporium. Pinch my arm if I get carried away. Or let these words wander your mind, unprecedented and blue. The thin old vermilion on the wall is something more demanding of our attention because it has hurled itself outside the parameters of discrimination and become completely random, like a suitcase or a crumpled napkin. Vermilion may be observed in various ribbons, atriums, stadiums, excesses and gowns glazed with madder lake. Give me a wrinkled nail and I’ll give you a strum on the guitar. The blue one. The one that doesn’t exist. It’s basically just an idea trying to get its hands on some music. Excuse me while I take this moment to get dressed for some exercise. I’m standing next to a house, trying to sell it, and watering a rosebush. I like doing such things and creating sentences for them. Anything I do rarely gets past the stage of clashing cymbals together and waiting for the clarinets to blend with the strings. The book I always wanted to write is an aerodrome waiting to house the strange and unnatural. Things with wings. Membranes. Trumpets. Hairy spheres of timpani. Eyes like red eggnog. Airs of vermilion. The roots of oblivion, which are golden, and smell like Wisconsin. We shall endeavor together to find the meaning of this. It will be a lifetime adventure. Starring Bruce Willis, Etta James, Edgar Allen Poe, Erwin Schrödinger and Werner Heisenberg as the ghosts of uncertainty. There are times I ache to find the truth in things, while simultaneously ignoring it, even when it’s standing right in front of me. Which is most of the time.