Originally typed on April 16, 2011.
Around this time, my art class had to write a few words about our concentration, a collection of works that had a theme; my theme was stories. A painful brainstorming session about what my artist’s statement was going to be led to this story. The thinking process tends to be a difficult and self-inflictive one and when I can distract myself with words that pair together well with each other, the result is therapeutic and wonderful. When my teacher, Ms. Marianne Hall read it the first time, she insisted that the story should be another work for the concentration. It worked out very well, and in a future post, I’ll explain why. For now, enjoy.
The bead from a 20 inch long bracelet of twine; Hidden under a pile of decomposing forgettable, amazingly uncrushed under all the weight. Once nestled carefully with 20 or so other beads around the wrist of a young boy or man as he liked to call himself. His fifteen-week anniversary present. He preferred to count by months, less numbers to keep track of. The bead tumbles across the sludge and trash, skipping right across other precious memories. A toy train missing one wheel. A picture frame with drips of paint on the top right corner. The bead lands in a can of Spam, hitting the bottom, skipping off against the wall, spinning until it finally rests. Its judgment day will come in a few hours.
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