Spectacles are made of bread. They look like gingerbread. Or almond crust. They are dropped in water. They inflate or disintegrate. They make figure eights, flat and ornate. Spectacles are taken out of fresh water. They are pulverized but keep their shape. Mouth is a mouth, opens but no words. Mouth hungers for air. I wake from my dream. Spectacles are metal. They are glass and blue metal. Or tortoise-shell. I keep leaving them places I can’t find them. Spectacles make words bigger. January looks normal again. All of January, the bedroom, the garden, the kitchen. I start making breakfast.
Saturday, 21 January 2017
Wednesday, 18 January 2017
Wouldn’t it be great to make a film detailing every slow colour of the spectrum in objects? To devise a play that heals the wound? To construct symphonies using 100 iphones as instruments? To invent new artforms that only work using solar? To blow glass flowers of all Australian species? To draw such drawings as would distract people, permanently, from their pompous inclination to destroy? To sing a song so amazing everyone forgets to applaud, the silence at the end is so big? To tie together the garden with Sze wool? To complete the universally agreed definitive text on January?
Wouldn’t it be good to make a painting that covered every wall and ceiling of a house? To create a sculpture emerged from the sea that defeated all council regulations? To write a novel that described the reader’s life in precise detail? To make a poem that is frontpage news? To design clothing that puts an end to the fashion industry? To build a church that everyone wants to go into? To plant tree gardens on all available vacant lots? To produce letter graffiti that emulates seedpod galaxies, not city blocks of squareness? To compose music that eloquently explains January?