Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Fragile like another kind of sculpture

I'm trying to clear off the table, to organize this madness of papers in a big pile slowly sliding to the floor like one of those sculptures where the ice cream is melting but it doesn't fall all the way to the ground -- they were big in the ‘80s, I remember marveling at them in White Flint Plaza, the mall where upstairs they had a section called Georgetown, with brick pathways like the old colonial center now turned blueblood residences mixed with shoppers wandering in and out of Hugo Boss, Alexander Julian, Banana Republic when everything was still made of linen. Everybody knows that linen wrinkles, I mean not everybody but everybody who's ever put that shit on. Don't get me wrong -- I tried it in the ‘80s, like any teenager tries the wrong things, the International Male catalog, I kept ordering things.

But back to my table, where the papers are holding their icecreamness in midair, I'm trying to catch some of it before all of that stickiness on the ground, my tongue in all those sugary papers floor covered in the bottoms of shoes. That wouldn't be good for my digestion, fragile like another kind of sculpture, the kind where you can’t take a photo because it might break.

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