Pixies In Pixels Garlic In Garamond

The olive tree is a stump to the river. I’m straining to understand the situation. There’s an abstraction beyond the construction of the eyes that fulminates like a landscape measured in quarks. It has those deep blues you find in the Proto-Renaissance of Italian art, those earthy tones of burnt Sienna and Venetian red, pigments like Terra Rosa and gold leaf halos. We come now to a hiatus in our amble, a massive furrow of fallow life, teeming with worms. The shovels lying around the grounds display a certain sagacity, a knowledge like grilled eggplant, and a drizzle of good olive oil. Perhaps this will help explain the reason I've chosen this moment to structure an apology for you, and why it's taking so long to get to the end of this sentence, which was originally intended to be a tiny wrinkle in the fabric of space and time, and has grown into this kingdom of garlic, in which aesthetic considerations trump economics, thereby causing butter.

I consider butter to be among some of my richest experiences on planet Earth. Everything tastes better with butter. And by everything I mean russet and rural and ruthlessly gurgled. Something like a sun. And a fence. And a day in the country, hunting cranberries. I think it’s high time we got to know one another. You’ve been coyly glancing aside at something peripheral all afternoon, something in the field of our vision that I haven’t written down yet. What is it? I’m not a mind reader. Unless, of course, the mind has rendered itself in an alphabet, a body of words streaming forth in the air, or flowing in stillness upon the paper of a page. Bobbing up and down. Or floating in a milieu of digital code. Fonts. Helvetica or Roboto. Pixels in a screen. Penguins on a shelf. Proteins in a proton. Polygamy in a porthole. Pixies in the meadow. Pixies in the forest. Pixies in the bathroom. Pixies on stage. Doing “Where Is My Mind?”

There’s a drama near us blinking plays. I think what's needed now is a boat propeller, something to move us forward in time. I’d like to get a closer look at the trellis in your blouse. If you could step forward and bow down a minute, the surrounding environment will make better sense, and things may evolve in different directions, mahogany in the rain, say, or a blue sweater abandoned by a river, and hanging from a branch of Amazonian cedar. I’m not the bombard I once thought I was. Just another rare species of clown with a brain in one hand and a cantaloupe in the other. Do people still carry notebooks? I do. But I’m weird. Always have been. Always will be. I'd rather be at the end of the beginning than the beginning of the end. That’s not a preference, that’s a commitment. My sense of belonging demands a casserole, at least. I want to hear that oven door opening. And all the way from the shores of Lake Geneva, and the Origin of the World, by Gustave Courbet, who knew a good brush when he saw one, and painted with the delicacy of a guest.