The Gift in The Action  An eager knife protrudes into the encampment of a hard shell. Stabbed, the oyster rings, calling for a safe haven in the darkness of warm waters, yet lingering pain seems to hold: again and again, teased, as the hard metal edge grazes the surface. Again the knife plunges, through the slight gap finally opening the body; like a smile without constraint, the air is swept out and unfurls in raucous laughter.
Aroused by the calm of the luminous interior, an energetic print of tropical waters ripples. Racing to reach for my stock pile of dye and paint. I reach for chartreuse (and anything that will take me off this predictable Earth). Unfortunately, the green won't merge with the shell, so I switch to red, scarlet, turquoise, and periwinkle. My consecutive attempts to evolve theses shields, lay at the bottom of this metal basin (a quick scrub brings back the fresh from factory sheen). Bubbling and churning, the lapped waves of dye bring color to the bleached battle grounds that I’ve flayed. Ponderous visions of retired homes tear like quick seams floating above the pot: here my curiosity buoy.  Plunged beneath opaque waters, halves and pieces circle the lagoon. Plumes of steam shift as metal claws aid my deep sea exploration. Retrieved from the depths, yet still incomplete, stillness is no longer here in these color treated homes. Hurried in my pursuit of success, I accept that I must sacrifice a shell to the microwave's intensity. Again my success is not found. I realize that my desires are satisfied in the failure, the mess, a delirium of quaking possibilities and combinations: a play in a crucible, where my attempts to dip into dormant hopes brings dissimilar worlds together through a roaring flame and agile hands. Gilding is next. True to my roots in maximalism, I run to the next shell and shift to make this layer formidable and delightful. My hands locate one of two cans of metallic spray paint. Pushing off the launch pad, my steps grace down a pooling of padded steps. Hovering over tired laced shoes and stank boots, I’m at the door with my treasure and supplies in my hand. My hands unfold a tired sheet of college memorabilia (not my alumna, but someone that doesn’t know that its missing, or I just never cared to bring it back). I stake my right foot onto wet grass, shivering from the cold and discomfort, I reach the marked spot for my next stretch of confidence to erupt. Suddenly, I’m chiseling into the inner worlds of these slain beauties. Slashes of silver connect to the depths of a Uraninan sea’s fallen soldiers. By the third held breath they have been covered and dusted with clear coat, gold tones and silver spray. Together they could be a world of splendor cast in honey suckle rays, until tomorrow, when Tariq settles in a dusky blue sky.
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