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"AFTER BEING BOMBARDED SENSESSLY BY THE ROAD-SIDE PROPAGANDA IT WAS ALMOST A RELIEF TO FIND MYSELF IN AN ACTUAL ACCIDENT" - J.G. Ballard
I was drawing a windmill onto the fog in the mirror after a shower, when I thought, why am I drawing a windmill onto the fog in the mirror? Then I answered, I’m drawing a windmill because it is a metaphor for rain. Next, I wiped the windmill off the mirror with my towel, and got ready for work. I work at a windmill farm 45 miles east of Los Angeles. The job consists mostly of staring at windmills. Mondays we meditate under the windmills, the company brings in a yogi with a PhD in philosophy. Tuesdays are Texas hold ’em Tuesdays. Wednesdays we stare at the windmills with absolute fear. Thursdays we check for mechanical failures and other duties as necessary. Fridays, Fridays we wipe the windmill blades clean of flies and mosquito guts. Then on weekends I watch boxing and long for the swooshing sounds of the windmill farm. Weekends are tough, but it’s only two days.
"I am gentle,
as if you were all fontanel."
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold
Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it.
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Snow, tenderly caught by eddying breezes, swirled and spun in to and out of bright, lustrous shapes that gleamed against the emerald-blazoned black drape of sky and sparkled there for a moment, hanging, before settling gently to the soft, green-tufted plain with all the sickly sweetness of an over-written sentence.