Shell Gold: Dyed and Re-Imagined
The Gift in The Action
An eager knife protrudes into the encampment of a hard shell. With a stab the oyster rings, calling for a safe haven in the darkness of warm waters: which lie too far away. Lingering pain seems to hold again and again, teased, as the hard metal edge grazes the layered surface. Again the knife plunges, finally opening the body through the slight gap; like a smile without constraint, the air is swept out and unfurls in a raucous laugh.
Aroused by the calm of the luminous interior, an energetic print of calm tropical waters ripples in the mind. Mine races to create a sense of other worldliness. Running to my stock pile of dye and paint, I’m looking for chartreuse (and anything else that will take me off this rock of predictable Earth), after its failure brick red, scarlet, turquoise, and periwinkle transfer from my hands to the dye pot. My consecutive attempts to evolve theses shields stain the impervious 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 been flaying. Possible revisions of retired homes tear like quick seams, floating above the pot, my curiosity, buoys them to the surface prematurely.
Plunged beneath the surface of opaque waters, I’m scrapping and pushing for the halves and pieces, with the back of a slotted spoon: which shows the same scars of revision as the shells I’m calling home. 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 half to the microwave. My success is not found, yet I realize that my desires are satisfied in the failure, the mess, a delirium of quaking possibilities and combinations. I play in a crucible where my attempts to dip into a pot of once dormant hopes and dreams bring 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 Uranian sea’s fallen soldiers. By the third 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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