Fly on Canvas

Where was I when the colors first began bleeding down the page? Probably the upper left corner. I’d been there for a while, hanging out, ruminating, talking with the clouds. Such depth clouds have. Such fascinating experiences they speak of… like how the winter sun over the Dolomites burns purples and oranges across their pale flesh, or the way they are stretched thin by the New Delhi orchestra as it prepares for the symphony of the day, and the sweet relief of emptying their fullness into the Ngorongoro Crater’s long cracks of arid mud…

Though the clouds reminded me, being a mere fly, I could never know such an existence. Still, they were happy to lend me their stories while we kept company upon the page. 

To travel might be nice, to see the world as the clouds do, to be a part of everything, yet also removed. I think it was then that the trees and frozen grass began to flow like syrupy rivers down the page; a runoff of browns, and blues, and greens, and yellows, oranges, and reds… how many colors make up a tree? Together, though, they might as well have been circling the concave porcelain on a flush. Soon the clouds too would be part of the deluge on the canvas; their lofty elegance and adventures mixing forever with the muddy ice, drip, drip, dripping onto the floor. 

When the assault of pine gum grew closer and I was reminded of the sweet smell of rotting flesh, I moved on. Goodbye clouds, I can’t imagine why she didn’t like you.