Underneath the canvas of toxic cadmium a box of black jack onions laid. Revealing only half of themselves. Eyebrows toyed with the idea of sync in reaction to the external scenario. Hopefully, catch any loose dust floating eye bound at such a pivotal moment. An eyebrow’s first job was always functional. What was the moment, well, the sheer fact that black jack onions actually exist. Of course black jack onions knew little about the abstracted lawn. Simply because, the black jack onion box rest in the garage & the freshly sliced abstracted lawn did not. Lawn in garage seems modern art try hard. Grass maybe. Maybe a ‘mock’ grass car to suggest concerns towards capitalism & our ever dwindling patchwork of planet greenery. Broom-broom, beep-beep. Lawn cars showing the world we care about golf; the environment. Eighteen plus holes giving birth to Emex australis.
The wind sock flapped in all its might. Abdomen stabbing the earth adjacent a right angle of dirt. Wind socks always wondered what made grass-lawn, only at twilight. They only ever wondered about such humanized approaches to nature at this exact time each week. Simply because they never allocated another time to such thought activities. Wind socks don’t wear watches; they rely solely on the wind. Nor are they extremely adventurous. More of a statuesque compass- for drifters- labelled gorgeously.
‘aren’t you going to take a photo?’
Co-existing phenomena on such a large scale, proved way to overwhelming to the senses. It numbed her sloth. Crop circles turned diagonal. A bird’s eye view would be most ideal. But first, taking it- all- in was of priority. Digesting the fact that black jack onions existed, followed closely by the lawn spectacles. Sharing, a fair third. Doing justice to such wonderful juxtapositions within reality pressed eagerly on her temples. Should the inclusion of the giant sculptural bok choy- the only thing she wanted for Christmas- make the story cut? Such concerns instantly diluted when a kind gentleman had surprisingly made her excrement feel somewhat liquid fertile. In mind’s eye; the acutest angle of lawn was chosen and with an intentional nod, she imprinted a concentrate of deeply felt thank yous. In a stamp-less state, they dug themselves to China & beyond to kingdom unite!
Once eyes turned shapes home label; lawn felt less abstracted. The box of black jack onions still needed a backstory. And the now dried, toxic-less canvas was ready for conté. Pearl conté.
The wind sock is a fictional character within this story. When passing the airport as a delightful car passenger on the way to my nephews birthday, I became entranced by this object. Partly structural, partly free. Without further adieu, I interrupted some nonsense discussion about Pete’s sore ankle, and urgently broke the news of my infatuation. What’s that wind-sock thing called? Two out of three people answered. A wind-sock. Dazzling in my momentary intelligence, a sigh smile emerged. The rest of the car ride was spent searching wind-socks on google. I even found a fish one which I will eventually attach to a pedestal fan. Who wouldn’t want pre-digested air in summer.