It's cobblestones and crowds, narrow alleyways and giant plates, it's cat herding and the root of familiar. It's an art, like everything else; it's the art; it's art.
It's complex mythology, explanations and origin stories. Passions, betrayals, abandonments. The synesthesia of allegory. The conviction that a story that has been told endlessly can be told again, one more time with feeling.
It's one announcement after another, the messenger you don't shoot to the left, glittering at times with news, the receiver to the right in various states of shock and dress, once holding her finger at the page in the book she was reading, as if she might presently return to it, as if her life hadn't completely changed.
It's babies of varying largeness and golden-pinkness and hideousness, thighs rippled with fat, their fingers making rabbit ears against a world that has not yet mastered light and shadow or much of a sense of humor.
It's zombies washed with tears, bleeding into cups, tortured and medically impossible, pulled down repeatedly to fall into the arms of friends who could not save but believe themselves saved, the legal collection of evidence, the takedown.
It's the one in almost every scene, the one who looks back at you instead of at the action, locks eyes across time. Says "I did this." Says "I paid for this." Says "Please get me out of here."
tuckova 