Obsessed with the Aesthetics of Everything

I Am Obsessed with the Aesthetics of Everything

From Issue 12 of Assemblage.

The way the art looked on the wall when it was winter & pale afternoon sunlight streamed in. The affected manner in which he always spoke. The Zig-zags painted on his face & constantly evolving persona. The way she looked as she stepped off the bus & music was playing. The way fields looked in the summer, or the porch that night we watched the stars & looked forward towards impending change & impending maturity. The way she strolled through the store with red dyed hair & combat boots like nothing could touch her, not even Fear. The feeling I got when I was finally able to say it was truth. The way light streamed in through windows onto the floor making patterns & the way it felt driving down the highway with the windows open listening to The Rolling Stones. The characteristic fedora, the iconic red braids & the flying bicycle, & watching that movie where he modernized Shakespeare. The way it needed to be put in that exact place in that exact time; replicating movie scenes listening to their theme songs in tandem, or the way the moon looked at night riding around with the windows open listening to particular songs. The way the pictures characterized the exact way that I was feeling, & the way that dancing in the moonlight felt on a summer evening, or how they fell in love & lived in the forest together.

Mini-Essays : October 9, 2015

Grass Covering by Ashlee Craft
Mini-essays are going to be a new feature on my blog & I’m so excited! I came up with the idea earlier today & in this feature, I will write a small paragraph about a beautiful minutiae or moment or thing in life, or that I read about, etc.

// SURREAL SLEEP

I awoke, not yet halfway through the short sleep night that I knew I was going to have, & looked around at the darkness of my room, & the sheer lace curtains over my window, illuminated by moonlight. My blankets were too warm; I tried putting one leg in, one leg out, like I did when I was a kid, but it didn’t really help. I tried sleeping everywhere : on the end of my bed, curled into a c-shape, clutching a plush owl & laying on my “weird fish pillow”, as I call it. I thought about the sound of his voice; adrenaline coursing through the shot put athlete preparing to throw; feminism; tender moments between the two of us; pretending that he was there, brushing my hair back from my face to comfort me to sleep; funny TV shows, & the deep cloud that was hanging above me. Still, sleep would not come, & the assumed exhaustion followed.

 

// Goodbye, Tree

You were there, a steady friend of mine over many lonesome nights when I would stare out my empty window at the lake. “Goodnight, tree.”, I would say, thinking about Anne of Green Gables & how she named plants, so they could be her friends. The moon would shine down over the lake, & the water would sparkle like electricity was jolting through it, & you would be out there, a steady, sure companion of mine. & every morning, your branches outstretched to the sky, you would be greeting the day, ready to embrace it. Steady, rooted, certain. That was how I thought of you. Now you are crumpled & uprooted & lying there dead, & I can no longer say goodnight to you, but rather, farewell. “Goodbye, tree.”

 

// The Smell of Fresh Sweet Potatoes

They sat in my fruit bowl on the edge of the counter for quite a while – a white organic sweet potato, & a regular sweet potato. I used to use the fruit bowl all the time, but then the fruit in it slowly rotted, & after I washed the bowl, it got shunned to the pantry. I rediscovered it a few weeks ago, & the sweet potatoes ended up in the bowl. In an effort to rotate the fruits & veggies, I decided to cook the sweet potatoes today. It was one of those moods where I feel inspired to do everything, & make everything, & get everything done creatively & productively. I sliced them & made sweet potato chips. As I sliced off the ends, I took an appreciative sniff of raw sweet potato. I’d never actually sniffed one before & realized I didn’t know what they smelled like. It lacked much of the earthy smell of a regular potato, but had a faint hint of regular sweet potato smell. It smelled refreshing, surprisingly.

 

// Mindfulness, In a Weird Place

Three times it happened, same place, almost the same time. Lost in thought, with the soap on my hands & warm water washing it away. Lost in thoughts about where I was going, & the mere hatred of it all, & every other frustration bearing down upon me. Then, each time, caught up in what wasn’t even real yet, & probably never would be, & maybe wasn’t even important in the scheme of things, I stepped on the same broken acorn on the floor. It crunched under my foot, & the unexpected sound jolted me from my soliloquies, & suddenly I was there, fully & present. It was the alarm clock. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. Then I felt the paper towels on my hands, & felt the crunch of the paper beneath my fingers. This happened two more times the same night, the exact same way.