Friday, February 20, 2009

The McDonalds' Window Diorama


Discovering a surprise holiday at work is something that isn’t too well received by the part of me that loves the inertia of routine. Disappointed with the sudden jolt in the scheme of things I needed a place to go where I can stay still and get over this breach of continuity (read, sulk). Another not-so-pleasant discovery I made was that McDonald’s was the only place I could do this at 9.30am of a half-holiday. Making a quick promise to myself of not indulging my strenuously suppressed appetite, I ordered only an espresso black, double shot (it was McDonald’s, so I gave up on the idea of asking for a de-caffe after quietly reflecting on the poster of a Big Mac). I carried my morning sulk-accompaniment to the seat facing the window and placed my field of vision comfortably between the stickers of Happy Meals. Show began.
34 lazy yet brisk marches per view. 34 projectiles dragging through a sluggish morning. 34 lives waiting to be intercepted.

Having more time at hands transfigured into stirring the coffee without any reason. A fruit fly momentarily obstructing my scope, cheerful from the draught of precociously ripened late-February grapes. A soiled piece of paper on the mosaic pavement which for some reason I imagined to be the religious pamphlet from a church saying something as clich├ęd as “God loves ye all”. The lazy yet brisk marches trampling it with their unsure mission. I decided not to watch the big garbage bin to my right because of it’s gloomy shade of green. The shops beyond it had the “open-close” sign dangling with non-certitude. The jig-saw puzzle shaped part of the sky didn’t specifically look of any season. Props strategically cluttered across the landscape. Faces talking with the sound muted. I stared with discomfort at a girl wearing a scratchy looking cardigan. I watched a fruit vendor try to swat at the stubborn fly. I wondered how many of these faces do I or will I know. How many times have I passed them, looking at them but not really looking at them? All of us connected at that connection-fertile junction of the train station, every morning. The coffee was unpalatably cold with all the aimless stirring. I tried to drink it for it was like my ticket to this little museum trip. Through this window, I mused over an infinitesimally tiny fraction of the eternal process of evolution. Like a dorky anthropology student, I decided to buy another ticket. 20 more minutes of human nature for 20 bucks.


art title - Museum, web art gallery
artiste - David Camp
url - http://www.dantesworld.net/Museum2.jpg

Friday, February 13, 2009

Circus of love (Valentine’s Parody)


The clock ticks in a sinister motion. There will be a chain reaction that will create a cess-pool of singles. Interrupted, violated and disrespected. The excreta of human intolerance at its mushy worst. Corny with bigotry. Pink stained and heart-shaped balloon filled. Putrid with the annoyance of a misconstrued faith. The alarm of anti-singlehood. Deafeningly loud and lingering. The energies of the proposals will float hauntingly in the air. Swollen with blighting joy. Daydreams realized in the fraction of that heavy second. Hopes, dreams, smiles, memories, visions, hallucinations, delusions and perceptions, all paraded. The cupids over-timing. Gliding over the mangled flesh of the singles. Discarding and de-allotting single souls. The appetites of lovers whetted somewhere, satiated somewhere.
The singles will disperse flapping their wings uncontrollably. Some will get caught in the cloud of holocaust and char to death. The dust will be impregnated with floral remains. It will not settle in a long time. Footprints of the single-life will TRY to run across the dust again. The singles will pray for revenges and retributions. Archies & Hallmark will carry that eerie aftermath. Love stories will profuse the underbelly. Cycles of Kama will resume. The bitch will stop menstruating.

Each face and each cake will recount a story. Stories of flesh torn apart and eaten with romantic lust. The independence suspended in the air cracks with a piercing scream. Romances linger like the stench of decaying carrion. Eerie trails lead to the end of stag creations. Zombies would be made out of couples. Love, love, love, love. All mummified in the heart-shaped sarcophagus of St.Valentine's. Doom’s day for the singles.
Daba Dooooooom.

"If you see Cupid, bitch-slap that little punk for me, will ya?"
- Valentine's Victim, single and alive.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Circle of life, Circus of death


The clock ticks in a sinister motion. There will be a chain reaction that will create a cess-pool of lives. Interrupted, violated and disrespected. The excreta of human intolerance at its copious worst. Gritty with bigotry. Blood stained and mucus filled. Putrid with the decadence of a misconstrued faith. The alarm of anti-climax. Deafeningly loud and lingering. The energies of the echoes will float hauntingly in the air. Swollen with blighting grief. Nightmares realized in the fraction of that heavy second. Hopes, dreams, smiles, memories, visions, hallucinations, delusions and perceptions, all breached. The dark messiahs over-timing. Gliding over the singed, mangled flesh. Collecting and allotting souls. The appetites of vultures whetted somewhere, satiated somewhere.

The pigeons will disperse flapping their wings uncontrollably. Some will get caught in the cloud of holocaust and char to death. The dust will be impregnated with corporeal remains. It will settle in time. Not too long. Footprints of life will run across the dust again. The kin will pray for revenges and retributions. Places will carry that eerie aftermath. Legends will profuse the underbelly. Cycles of karma will resume. The bitch will start menstruating again.

Broken ghosts will haunt broken terrains. White lights so elusive. At night the street lamps will illuminate a morose spot of debris. A monument will stand in ashes of decrepitude, waiting to be resurrected like the phoenix. The winds will stay put, or so it may seem (only the pollen can tell). Each face and each flake will recount a story. Stories of flesh torn apart and eaten with mythical lust. Dreams half chewed and spat out. Dreams switched off and shut out. Unsaddled horses of the night gallop every now and then. 

The silence suspended in the air cracks with a piercing scream. Sorrows linger like the stench of decaying carrion. Eerie trails lead to the end of sundry creations. Zombies would be made out of memories. Thirst, quest, longing, unbelonging. All mummified in the sarcophagus of that fission. Doom box.
Bada boom. Bada bam.

art title – explosion
artiste – Peeter Allik
url - http://www.art.ee/gallery2/d/1570-1/explosion.jpg