Saturday, April 25, 2009

Instinctive Fear of Expression

"In a world ..."

Ok, we don't do that :)

When you privately write messages, to your diary, surely you must know that eventually somebody found it? Someone, after all, did find Anne Franke's? And she must have been like, at the very point of bleakness.

There is a town called Centralia, in the United States, that I would like you to visit, in person. You can bring your diary, so that you will be able to record your own personal thoughts as you traverse this incomprehensibility on good Earth. Everybody there is almost dead, so there is no cause to worry about inveiglers and thieves. It may, in fact, be a last place within the atmosphere where one can carefully commit one's expressions to the self, without anyone else really knowing.

There is, I know, that *instinctive* fear of expression. After all, we are, all of us, only conglomerates of tiny cells. We are ... constitutions. As primary automatons, it would be necessary to protect our sacred selves. I'm still waiting for info from Nangy about the pre-columbians in the Yucatan, but I think I have the idea intact, at least in early germination. A little cell that fears and self-protects.

Point is, that the internal mechanism of that cell is to coalesce. Yes, that means 'group'. In modern times, you can see this ... turn out ... in the works of Picasso and such. I always think the Futurists did it better, though. So we now go, with our print of Picasso, to the artist's house, where she usually hangs with Squeaky. Her mother lets us in, swearing that if we dare to steal her diary again, she would murder us like the Behemoth in Fact.

Shrugging, we enter her abode. You can see why this place was so holy, why it had to be 'protected' by the Creator. There is expression all over, in rare blue inks, green acrylics. In the center there is even the shape of an Hellenistic Expression of Woman, doused in ancient oils.

She askes if we have come to burn her, the poor thing.

"No," we say, "we are the Saviours."

She gets up from the table, realizing it may be safe to reach for the blanket.

"Grouping has," we try to explain, "essentially dissolved the necessity for that Instinctive Fear of Expression."

Draped now, like a painting herself, the artist gently reaches for her paints. We goad her on, mere Observers.

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