-The Talking Puppet Hand of Jim Henson
Today it is raining and the sun is still shining, still shining as if it is blissfully unaware of the black drops that are falling on my new-haircut head and the newly-watered shadow of sidewalk below it.
Its rays paint my neighborhood with a sort of eerie glow, highlighting the realism behind every leaf vein and inside of every plastic garbage can crack.
It’s almost unnatural, the HIGHDEFINITION channel of my life, clouds erupting in alien shades of purple and orange, rain continuing to fall on me, becoming an effective shower of the day’s bike grime and child wear, a legitimate double rainbow (something I had resignedly decided did not exist,) spraying a dim splash of color over my ride home.
When I was younger (not much younger than rainy today but younger nonetheless,) I used to imagine my life as a scripted television show, millions of casual Americans turning on their Vizio and Samsung plasmas, eager to watch every minute minute of this strange boy’s life, off-handedly placing bets about conceived love triangles and posting emoticon comments on dusty internet message boards.
And this is what this sunny rain reminds of, this imagined set, built from soil and scratch, waiting for me to jump on, spout off memorized lines, waiting for the viewers to watch, the colors on their HIGHDEFINITION TV jumping unceasingly from red to orange to violet to green to blue to indigo to violet.
And then to black.
No comments:
Post a Comment