Ish, a tee-shirt story I was told: "I had a dream, a dream had me, this morning, that I worked for a lumber/hardware store, and even though doing things of character, like helping a runaway indentured servant, I was never promoted. I didn't mind so much, didn't even really notice it, until the owner-boss's wife told me privately that he had waivered on hiring me in the first place, but she had proposed that she sensed I had character; and that the other thing that held me back, which I hadn't noticed was happening with all the excitement ~ the other thing, ".....was the tee-shirts of course." She was trying to help, so I tipped my head like I knew what she was talking about, and then when I looked down, I couldn't see my shirt and couldn't remember wearing anything political or un-new or exciting.
But part of the other reason I hadn't noticed my job stagnation was my artistic avocation. I was making Hot Chairs. Big Rennie Mackintosh-ish oval-backed iron chairs; I heated them until they turned white, like the inside of a sea-shell, and then took them out to houses, and people were getting too close to them, or in them, or didn't understand them or something, and were getting burned. Some people just don't get it. Goddamit. This one lady appeared at the door of the trailer with stumps for arms. She waved them around, not really critically or anything; but I shouldn't have to explain these concepts to people; The Concept; but I did begin to feel a little sorry for her. But not responsible, exactly.
There were about seventy people in that place, with the trailer door; it was more like a folks home or hospital or apartment building, but it's hard to believe that could happen; that there wouldn't be someone in that force of people to prevent that. Someone with understanding; basic life skills; basic understanding in art. She was also quite a bit overweight, and I really DID feel sorry for her. But this could effect my whole artistic career; impact it. Not good. If I have to start thinking about these things, estimating the public, accounting the public, the work is going to vanish. The concept is not meant to be opened; not meant to be washed. I won't even be able to focus on what I'm doing. It's not that I can't feel the woman's plight, it's just that if I start letting that in there, I can feel my self getting confused, already. The activities performed, even unconsciously, that give me direction, vitality, keel; counterweight and balance; will lose faith. The vigor and pleasure; the cosmic humor. The clung-to rope rhythm. The travel and way.
Suddenly I have to send my helper friends home and can feel myself thinking about my hardware job.
Oh well.
I can still be good. Whenever the opportunity arises.
And maybe that nice boss's wife lady will sleep with me.
But time will slow down; confusion surface like a bubble in a tub, and it's going to take a long time. Damn.
Weeel, thank goodness it's only a dream. This another life.
Sort of. But for me, Me, I'm a big tough guy. Too smart to slow down while awake. Too clever; too much spirit; too much.....vibration and oscillation.
End o quote. |
