Waiting Standing Thinking


Waiting standing thinking — will the weather change ? That horizon, like a stone bench holds a heavy heaven cloud, but just here the courtyard light streams through the skylight and all seems bright. Bright for now.  But what of yesterday too when ringing around with sound of hammer on steel I wandered slowly gazing. A bass clarinet breathing sounds through the parapet. A low sounding solo of calm resigned loneliness talking to the dying day. A furrow grazed his brow as I stood there looking at the far sky.But here I stand today all quiet and mourning the day like it had died already and just waiting,, waiting for the standing thinking time to finish.

“Do you think I would really leave ?  After getting to know you a bit ?” he said, not turning his head, but staring into the distance.

“I’m standing here thinking you’d already gone.  But I suppose things didn’t work out.  With the project..  So I thought.. I thought you would be.. leaving for the next place.”  she said.

“I would leave and I know that having left, I’d probably forget the place quickly.  Depending on what came next you know. But then I’ve got used to this courtyard, that crazy musician inside and you too. Standing there so thoughtful.  It’d be hard to leave again.” he said

“But that rock has to be split, you know – it cannot stay this way.  It was like a river rock to wrestle with, and now it’ll be split into two forever.  The pieces wont join back again.” she said.

“But there’ll be a left hand and right  hand part.  They could fit together and the memory of their fit might last.  Don’t you think ?”

“No, once split, those rocks will go their own way, the edges rounding off on other paths, and then they would not fit together again, even if by some faint chance they met again.” she said.

I would’ve said – “the day will die”

but for the hammer on the rock I cry,

and waiting standing thinking there

I saw him leaving

without a care


‘yes but its not going to happen is it ?’

”and why not then ?”

‘well, I mean to say’

‘well perhaps you may be right’

‘it ain’t gonna happen’

‘improbable really, its nothing, don’t know what you’re worried about’

‘i mean, ‘whats the chances ?”

‘she’ll be right mate’

‘go’on get on with it~’

‘yes but it ain’t you doing it is it ?’

‘so what are you going to wear then ? You know.. smart casual, business casual, cocktail ?

‘what’s wrong with what i’ve got on — right now — i mean ?.

‘well its interesting isn’t it’

‘.. the belt..’

‘it’s buckle is a jade dragon head, a friend of mine in China gave it me’

‘…and the boots ?’

‘Texas Boots, also with a curious design but really soft leather’

‘…but the shirt is strange too..’

‘sheer clear polyester’ totally see through… but somewhat electro-intensive’

and the hat ? Why the hat ?  It’s way past sundown.

‘the hat is keeping my thoughts at bay.  I find that’s important at these events’

‘why ? what’s the worst that could happen, not wearing a hat ?’

‘any random thought might just escape, while i was not thinking for a minute.’

‘that’d be highly improbable.’

‘Maybe so, but even one highly improbable random thought if it escapes unnoticed, it can really mess up a conversation.  People all stop and look at me and say ‘What’s that got to do with anything ?’

‘and the jade bit ? on the belt ?’

‘That’s actually to catch them, ..

.. the random stray thought that mightn’t escape.

‘Yes, this jade dragon, has it’s head open, and can catch any stray thought’.

‘mmm.. not so sure about the belt… it’s not really cocktail is it ?’

‘No… yes it is, she’ll be wearing a bracelet of some kind, right ?.’

‘Yes, ok’

‘it might probably be jade right ?’


‘So !… I’ll just flash me Green Jade Dragon head belt and offer her the same !.’

Excuse me Sir – You have to Imagine it

On entering the room, there it was, a submarine so it seemed, all big round and rusty as I recall, and really filling the space, standing tall close to the ceiling, and wall to wall, almost corner to corner.  It looked more like a massive piece of war junk, a bomb perhaps, long not exploded after being left behind.  A modern day artist had found it and installed it in this rather white room of the art gallery.  How long had it been there ? How did they get it in ? Not sure – it looked familiar, yet impossible to really comprehend as something of any use whatsoever. How heavy was it ? It kind of looked solid, but I should have been too heavy if it was solid all the way though maybe.

The room seemed too small for the object and you could not the whole thing from where I stood near the entry. I started over to the left side, and tried to crab my way down the side wall – trying to see behind the thing, to see if there was a nameplate or something.

“Excuse me Sir”, came the command of the supervisor.

-mm.. but there was no line on the floor indicating the viewing limits — I thought..

I tried a bit further in, just a peek behind it is all I wanted..

“Excuse me Sir” !!

I backed out, oh well – I would just have to imagine it, since I could not see behind it.

How will the egg remember it’s me

(who backed out with care in the gallery)

when it has to remember

a rusty old chicken

It’s laid there to be

Later I ventured into another small room, an alcove hidden from view and the only thing in it was a square hole in the wall. The hole in the wall was pitch dark.  I poked my head in. There was nothing in there.  Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the dark inside the hole in the wall.  I still could not see much. I closed my useless eyes.

It smelled rusty !

“Excuse me sir !” I yelled into the void.  A dark metallic echo came back !

Now I remember what I imagined.

A short recollection – written in response to a experiencing the sculpture MEMORY of  Anish Kapoor.

The Surrealism of a Folded Tin Guitar

Picasso seemed fully aware of the tangential nature of proof in artistic depiction.  Always trying to describe a searing truth in his mind’s most amazing determined eye, the physical working of it was rough, crude, but carried the truth with it, like a sword in the back of a brutish bull in a bullring.  That the matador and horse were almost interchangeable.  That always eyes are on the same side of the face.  That a skull with horns could be well represented by a bike seat and handlebars and rusting mounted on a wall.

All the works of art had been sent her to New South Wales from France and would be on display here till March 2012.  Picasso, simply titled, and people had been queuing up to get in, to see all the special works of the famous painter/sculptor.  You could tell by the conversations in the large lobby where a latest (not by Picasso) all black opus entitled ‘Stephen Hawkings‘ hangs across from two plaster busts regarding the floor where bits of broken white bust lie quietly. In the ticket queue you could overhear that some people had studied Picasso carefully or quickly or not at all.  I had read his biography some years before and forgotten most of it.

Having purchased tickets, we all had to come back at the scheduled time and queue politely in an anteroom with a large screen video showing Picasso doing paintings on glass.  Birds mostly. Quick and true.

Then at the appointed time, we marched across the lobby in double file as though marching through the entry to the bullring and into the first gallery room, one of about a dozen which represented the different phases of his artistic career.

I was in the centre of gallery room number 5 “Brushes with surrealism”, and having seen galleries 1-2-3 and quickly through 4 was optimistic that I could begin to understand something of the artist. I was standing in the middle of the ‘Bullring’. I was imbued with the art, the deconstruction, the destruction of 3D forms, and its smattering of surreal truth on the walls of the gallery. Truth and Picasso a master at it like a matador, each work of art a conquest, and when finished a death.

There on the outer edge of the Bullring I could see a large guitar like painting.  The sinewy strings aboard the neck of the body of the bull, and I writing notes with a Katana and looking over at the guitar.  I wandered slowly over, past the people like pebbles of crushed stone that made up the field of the ring.  There on the wall was the guitar.  The painting.  I moved closer.. The painting originally white with grey brown and black shades started to develop depth and shadows.  The painting changed as approached.  Gradually the painting of a guitar dissolved into 3 dimensions of painted metal and tin. Looking at it now from 5 feet back, the guitar became folded metal which looked like something from the Australian outback.  Remnant of a roof perhaps, but cut with metal shears and folded by hand to become a painting at 20ft. And with strings added.  The tin now, folded cut metal, an now from the side looking for all the while like a tin gate, all twisted and bent. Yes, from the side it just looked like a bunch of metal folded and painted badly.

I came to see Picasso’s works, I saw many others, in fact all of them twice.  What I saw was that art reflects on life and truth, but in itself cannot be true to that.  I loved how cleverly folded  painted tin on a wall, could at 20 paces look for all the people in the gallery like a painting of a guitar. I could hear the screams of the crowd assembled at the bullfight where the Matador and Horse are conquered by the bull, and his latest wife looking on the comic cubic Picasso who wrestled with tin snips and cut himself no doubt on the tin, trying to make music with a painted folded tin ‘guitar’.