Andrew’s been pondering the question, what is a “vegetarian zombie”? So I’ve explored some Zombie philosophy.
Urge for brains constant. Irresistible. But also urge to help others. So make diet, more earth friendly, like human vegetarians do. Choose what brains. Brains that not contribute much. Never eat scientist brains. Some politicians okay. Best brain from Murdoch man. He spread his brain though everywhere through paper. His brain very renewable.
Terry Whidborne (find out more at his site) is a stupidly talented person especially with a pen/pencil/paint or really anything- I imagine he could even carve an amazing sculpture with a pin if he wanted to. Every Sunday he does a sketch and sends it hurtling into the chirping land of tweeters. I got excited and couldn’t wait for today’s so I used last week’s as today’s prompt:
Fairies are hairy. I always thought they were smooth delicate creatures with impeccable dress sense and perfect figures. I locked myself away in libraries and even lived in the woods for a month in search of these perfect beauties. But when I finally tracked them down, I found a group of tubby hairy artists buzzing about. They’d been drawing themselves into books for decades as gorgeous creatures. My disappointment was quickly replaced with relief. No one is perfect. Everyone is insecure.
Another one of my favourite artists is Dave McKean:
Her mind was a dumping ground. She was barely visible through the rubbish and weeds that took over her thoughts. Every bad thing someone said and every negative thing she’d read festered there. I tried planting a few compliments but they never lasted long in that wasteland. Eventually, I left. I was terrified the weeds would reach over the pillow and strangle me at night. I remember the way she looked at me before I went. Her eyes were barely visible, roots dangled over her brow and empty packets dripped residue onto her eyelashes. I could see a tiny flower hidden in the mess, but it wasn’t enough. I knew only she could restore the balance and let things grow again. That was the last time I saw her.
Erin sent me her favourite piece “The Last Forest” by Max Ernst:
The moon is a forest. If you slip under a crater, you’ll see it. Giant blue luminous plants thriving and giving off eerie green light. When the Earth was used up, we moved here. It had been under our noses all along. Not everyone survived the trip. Which is just as well, the moon is small and cramped. Some complain about the strange damp smell of the forest or the dark blue mud that cakes our boots. I am just glad there is a forest left in the universe that will take us.
I asked my doctor if he had any favourite artists. He said Margaret Preston.
Grace has very distinct boundaries. Don’t hug her, don’t look her directly in the eye and definitely don’t take her to anything loud. Everything must be clear and repetitive. At first it seems restrictive, sad even. But the closer you get to Grace, the more intriguing the boundaries become. She’s different, beautiful and bold.
One of my favourite artists is Andy Goldsworthy:
Everything he does seems precarious, his twig hanging things especially.
I watched a doco where he made one, and when it got blown over he really kept hist cool (I would be so frustrated). So here is my attempt to capture these hanging sticks in a story.
His spindly twig frame carried his dandelion beard. He might be scattered by a light breeze at any moment. But he wasn’t frail. He had the gumption to experiment. Life was a cycle, and he always rebuilt as something new. Frail people stayed broken forever. Next time he’d be butterfly wings and straw.
I got a suggestion from Julia while ago. Something I’ve been finding difficult is keeping track of the different submissions and fitting them into my themes. But your suggestion has not been forgotten Julia! Today is the day. The submission was: “Conchita Consuela Poiter – the alter ego of a bank payroll officer Leonie. Leading the life she always wanted to through Conchita. Can you write about Conchita?”
Yes, yes I can.
Leonie’s eyes glazed
The new payroll software was a maze
All she could think of was tonight
Tonight she was Conchita, glamorous and bright
Tonight she’d be strutting down the aisles
No more boring files
She’d be working the floor
She’d be someone others adore
One day she’d stopped and taken stock
Realising her dream wasn’t something to mock
It was not for sale
Like homebrand ginger ale
People would admire her rack
For the shelves at Coles she did stack
It was a job she loved dearly
But her parents thought it merely
Unrespectable and dreary
So by day Leonie suffered at her respectable screen
And by night Conchita reorganised the beans.