I'm trying to believe this woman is not a tramp, but I really know that she is. Now we are in my basement apartment. Outside, the night is cold, a glitter-dance of stars; when they hop out from behind the clouds, they seem to ice-dot the infinity that hangs above them. Black holes. Curved space-time. The planet Zinitze hearing Gregorian Chants from the Middle Ages, which have just arrived there, by the logic of general relativity. Maybe. The woman sitting at my bar is having a drink. My bar is two worn out planks that had once been house painting scaffolds, now mounted on four not-quite-level orange crates, the surface looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. I like it, but she seems puzzled, maybe even annoyed. My own art is going nowhere. Me and these other dudes rented a storefront, called it a gallery, and there displayed our stuff. I sold a few, purchased by kindly neighborhood locals. My vision? Everything is beauty; everything is art. Our society cannot see how it lives in the present, and forgets the past. What looks modern to us, our stores, our churches, our streets, and how we conduct our current existence, will seem ancient in less than a hundred years. Like others before me, I paint them now, leaving behind a recording. I doubt if this woman cares at all about things like this.
Story Copyright © Paul F. Wolf