At the Saint Louis Art Museum, while I appreciated this curious metal-piece, the petite lady in the beige fur coat yawned and spoke out loudly from her residual ignorance, proclaiming this piece of art to be for all intents lacking in creativity and direction, her audience nodded an agreement. Then their little footsteps left the room.
Without warning, and from the safety of a teary visage, and in defense of the glorious animal that concocted this contraption, I imagined a story like an undying contrail in the sky, a powerful narrative behind this colorful, painful contortion of a man’s soul.
It told of a broken man, who now bore a godlike grievance against life.
A man who lost the love of his life in a car crash of lights.
In his attempt to share with humanity the final pages of that love story, he took to a clammy dark shed a few colorful scraps of wreckage and an old welding gun. He spent several cold nights writing their unfinished story on metal sheets and with a pen of blue flames.
And while he manhandled his memories, his eyes welled up and leaked. While he wrote, his lips quivered and smiled and salted. While he wrote, in a million places on his hands where the scraps left little red gashes, he felt, again the painful tinge of a love unbroken, one filled with unfinished smiles. Every little piece of metal was a page, and every rioting color, a memory forcefully preserved.
It could have been this, as my imagination was a deadly weapon.
Or it could have been the last shivers of a raving lunatic, who once thought small colored buttons a delicacy, whose asshole and mouth were all but one and the same entrance.
“Nkechi was her name, Nkechi was her naaame!”, the words he screamed in the middle of the night as he blew full kisses to a half moon.