Nature Morte

Four rings break the silence the white noise machine provides, then my whinny voice speaks, “You’ve reached my answering machine; please leave a message,” finally two beeps and silence again. It all takes about 30 seconds, but the interruption in my stream of consciousness lasts much longer, especially today when I stopped writing about some other profundity to record this. And to make the sketch I scanned in to redraw as the near-by illustration.

private caller

There were three such interludes provided by “unavailable” who seems to have many numbers that all begin with eight. You’d think Ms. Unavailable would have deleted this never-answered number from her address book long ago. But she keeps calling, and to call and hang up, that’s just cruel. There have been another three calls since.

I thought that it might be fun or a challenge to just go ahead and scan the sketch in, “ink” and color it  in the computer, then post it with the relatively un-mulled-over text all in one sitting—as opposed to the usual week-long process.

So I did that, or at least I hope so; the drawing is done, but I am still writing. What you see here is one of my bedside tables with my phone and white noise machine in their actual positions. The journal looks pretty much like this. It is leather-bound, which seems classy but hides a series of ordinary composition note books inside. The red fountain pen vaguely resemble one I have, but not the dark blue one I’m currently using.

The imaginary compositiona nature morte, the lowest niche on the hierarchy of genres—is about disillusions and pretensions. I own no “I heart …” mug, nor have I done or will I ever do so. Nor do I use my faux “classy” journal used as a coaster. The implication of the latter is, that may be all it’s good for. While the former confabulation is a tempest in a tea mug; pay it no mind. It’s just an egoistic “I” and only half a heart stirred up by pretensions—who uses fountain pens, but the pretentious?

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