Birth of the Avant Garde

(The Moment, Again, and Now from This, Here)

She, like others, has forelegs and backlegs. The Woman Called Evening, what does she do? She carries her name.

She lives under the tent called Sundown and does what people do in darkness. She, side-by-side with her mate, Adamnedman. The Woman Called Evening and Adamnedman, they taste.

The Woman Called Evening can be of one mind, and later, be of another. Her mind stays, yet, then comes another one and replaces it. 

She, under a tree, considering just this thing. She with her mind in this garden. Some things get new leaves where there were not any before. A flower appears and then bows its head and, in days, drops down into the underfoot places and then is gone. She does remember it, but it is not anymore there.

“So, see here,” says he, “I am a thread, a filament, a figment of fashion and I am one and I am spun of all of the threads, woven over and under one another in such ways as to be this very fine way, you see. I am unlike the others. Lend me some sugar, I am your valence.”

And, The Woman Called Evening perceives. 

How does this liquid voice that speaks know of the blooming and wilting flowers in her head? How does it know of her tangles and tell her of its weavings? 

“Who?” she says, as she looks into two oily points of light, in the eyes of this one that is just right here, just so as she can see him so well. He is on point. Right here.

She watches him.

He is something else. Smooth and seeming to carry his own music with him. Those eyes. That tongue. Evening, she thinks to herself that different is really something. That different is really good. 

In his beyond-elegance, his minimality, he has edited away all of the extras. Yet, he is rich and wild with difference and complexity of the tight and compressed kind; deceiving somehow, in his design. Looking not to be looked at. Looking not-able-to-be-looked-away-from. This is the magic he has. Evening cannot look away. She fears he will melt away and she might never see this strand-of-a-man again. She wants to know exactly how this creature does. She is wanting to melt away too. The Woman Called Evening wants to be like this creature, the economy of the grandeur – potent, multifarious and rendered in such great craftsmanship as to be really the only thing you could want. Suddenly, she realizes how foolish and waving about we all are. She wants to hide her forelegs and backlegs. Too, too many they are.

Better to be thread so you can be anything. Twist yourself to who you want to be and up a tree you will go, and in a coil you are, and into the crevice you can slip and no one will be the wiser.

This One, he is all tail, with none of the dragging. All head and body seamlessly slither and flow, wrought so, to join the idea of a creature, its body and the desires that it has for itself. This trifecta of grace. This. She thinks.  This is where it is at.