A Corrugated Note
Cardboard sculptures lie on the floor. Triangular pieces. I had cut, folded and taped them. I feel content looking at them.
I'm wearing white, laced edges, black joggers and seated on the floor. Busy, engrossed playing tableau with the cardboard, giving it shapes, twisting the edges, batting to flatten where needed.
I tear a large piece, free the fluted medium, turn it upside down, and make more illustrations. Cylindrical openings. Cut bits scatter the floor.
She's still sitting there? I think.
I've been standing behind her for some time without her knowing it.
In an all black jeans and shirt, hands and face stained with black oil.
She's sitting there with no care in the world!
I stare at her, hard and loud. Emotions swirl the orbit of my eyes. Impatience. Madness. Neglect. Lust. Love. Fear.
I keep standing there, watching her.
I take a fountain pen, and write in black ink on the concave side of a boat I made. A note for him. I smile. I will show him later. But obviously, how would he read what I wrote! I write like a newspaper torn in countless pieces, shreds conjured and put together with a scotch tape, and you try to read through a new kind of newspaper - a puzzle.
She wrote something, I think. I peak over her shoulder and try to read. She just scribbled; I can't figure it out! Urgh, my nerve ticks.
Did that all sound disconnected to you? That is how they are.
You never know what happens next.