Still Life

So I feel like I should write an in depth psychological piece on a woman who loves popcorn and who works a job unbefitting to her talents. It would be a satire of course and the woman would love plants, yeah and gardening. Nothing too out of the ordinary; a quite dull piece really.

A still life. And what's wrong with that. What's wrong with a lack of action anyway. You know, those bowls of fruit and cloth draped over wooden tables, grapes strewn in piles and a pear, always a pear. They got famous for just being there. They never did anything other than sit and look delicious.

But the story would take place over only a minute or too, and it would be hundreds of pages, outlining every feeling, every motive, every angle of perspective. A woman smoking a cigarette, a woman stuffing her face with kettlecorn. A child in front of the television for hours.

A still life.

She'd lift her cigarette and think of rain.

He's face down in the shag carpet watching the action.

She's covered in popcorn.

So the point is that theoretically, yes, in theory, the act playing out in my mind is slow and meditative. None of this up and down, over and around; but more now and then now again, and a bit more. Slow and still. The Buddha may approve, or maybe not.

Back and forth, forth and return.

The sun is so warm on my skin. I'll save the theory for the rain and write the next great American novel in the setting of here and now, and over the span of 2 minutes. You'll see.

i've spoken

i've spoken of women thrown out to the tide
of soft wading pools whence poets have died

soft shells and sand, an ocean, a rock
the whirling wind and the days taking stock

a quiet blue ripple moving over the still
lakes, ponds and rivers, my memory's will

take this for granted or take this for not
but the souls of our women will not be forgot