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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Baudrillardian Echo I awoke this morning with a profound vision of a painting. A sort of Baroque ensemble of consequence, still lingering. I've put it to pen, since it's quicker than painting. The contortion of life via exploitation, from sacred to the profane. Inside the frame: Hills roll from back to foreground. Three groups in the fore. First from left also starts the hand of time. Here some people admire the warmth of the sun, kissed by the rays. Peaceful, unadultered, not yet restrained. Drawn across the scene, and years have unravelled between them and these, where others sip wine. Enrolled in playful acts of elation. Seeing the reward natures vines of harvest provide them. No longer new. Able to take advantage of balmy days. That romance of the past becomes a backdrop to the history of today. In the lowest right of the work, barely within the frame. A darkened coloration of auburn, perhaps a trees shade. A wizened few smoke-rounded, toke in orchestration. Contriving and prioritizing alternative ways. There but not present. Daydreaming our dreams of past days away: ''To live most natural was to imbibe from the elements of nature. To desire was to co-opt, to milk, to press grapes with others. But to groom, to groom the weeds of the idle...'' Think industry men. Striving to lay ownership of all in front of them. Outside of the frame is the simulacra. The fought rights of the worker became frayed. We peddle our fortunes, distracted with nonsense. Killing ourselves to capture something. All of the while, running away. Business as usual, each to their own. Ignoring the troubles that lead us astray. Now, we metamorphose love into self-loathing. We synthesize the serotonin. The narrow space between us and the painting, no longer here; nor yet there, was when we had it best. Was that the end?
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