ADD Delightfulness - Sailor's Delight.Submitted by AllyJeans at 2007-03-06 12:15:33 EST
Rating: 1.56 on 16 ratings (16 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I’m feeling ill. If I knew a better way to describe it, I would. The sky is an obscene color, like the glossy red paint on a matchbox car, and when I look at it my blood becomes thick and doesn’t flow.
Right now I’m staring at a cloud formed into a penguin or a bear; and its underlying “Hot-Wheels” paint job, with dabs of orange mixed in, highlights and permeates the wispy edges, fashioning it into a rusty neon sign—the sort found in out-of-the-way thrift stores and in the poorly lit, sectioned-off backrooms of moderately priced strip clubs. I hate it. God, I assume, is the mastermind and glorious artist to whom I should complain. His being the all-knowing power, though, I’m not supposed to question the construction techniques or harmonic proportions or even the esoteric whims that underlie His creations—yet I am, because it is a mess. A goddamn mess! An abortion by a hypocritical god who does not permit abortions. A short story beginning with the word “the,” as if “the” would hold up the rest—and save it—by dint of its being a definite article. A cloud, a bear—the cloud! the bear!—or penguin. How amateurish. How positively crude.
A few minutes pass. The shapes dissolve away. There are but few traces of the animals I had seen up there, and only the sky remains as it was, rosy and orangey and glassy, with a smattering of dusty clouds moving about its surface, trundling carelessly, left to right. The obscenity of what has just passed is only rivaled by that which lies in me. My blood is excessively muddy. My arms are tree trunks and lifting them is tantamount to speaking with that god up there—impossible and pointless. God doesn’t care about His abortions above or His abortions below, and He certainly doesn’t care to listen to any criticisms involving the two. Or maybe He does care, and that’s worse. I lie down in the green grass, green despite the fire above, and I meditate on this—not that I know how to meditate, but doing it regardless, as it seems required by the circumstances. By the time the sky has turned to black, with its radiant dandruff sparkling solemnly at me, I have fallen asleep. There I dream about other things; and there I rue the next day, when I shall return at dusk and watch it happen all over again, abjectly and obscenely.