The Postmodernist Exhibition

Last night's storm has left its artwork on the beach, a postmodernist exhibition of brown seaweed strewn in clumps like hair on a barbershop floor, broken seashells and a fallen rainbow of plastics strung out along the shore where now an exhausted sea licks the leftovers of a meal. Chaos has been distilled down to washed up artifacts and red bottle caps, drinking straws and spoons buried deep inside a ball of yellow twine. I cannot make much sense of what is on display or glean from this haphazard art a hint of meaning other than in its making. All seems uncoupled, specimens torn from lonely souls, bits and pieces coughed up out of the exhaust of a huge machine whose pistons pump and drive a spinning wheel that has no purpose. I pick up a plastic sandal and wonder whose foot it once belonged to, then put it back and walk home alone.