FIRST STREET

The street is smouldering. The aurora over the skyline is still heavy painted there. We have been woken up this late morning to the smell of petrichor after a brief rainfall. We have waited for this more than half a year in that dryness of the soil. We all have encountered this serendipity of thing coming to us when we were least anticipating it. Suddenly, the high-rise buildings are flowering with huge butterflies. The trees above us hanging in the clouds are pure greens. You can see a sequoia among them and its psithrism is calling for late birds. Birds fly high in the sky. The groan with snapping, cracking, and popping noises of the tree branches is really working on you to take your mind away from the sign paintings your Mexican painters are working on. You need them badly the institutional space you have been given. You have meetings with the curators. These events will be webcast. Maybe that is why you are not having clinomania at least and waking up before the morning begins is still remaining with you. You see a stretched of vehicles moving through the rainclouds. Quite a few people are in the street. It is still late in the moist morning. Almost 10:47 a.m. You stand on the pavement, a part dissolving and the other is folded, you seem to be waiting for something now but you do not know where it is coming from. You are not in the least worried. Sometimes you remember yourself and other times too you do not know what it is to be yourself. You have not forgotten that the company will reimburse you for your travel expenses. Nevertheless, you wish to stand here in solitude. You have been agonizing all this time about what to think again. I think we have met before in an art exhibition or in exotic car show. But the euphoria of standing here is a feeling you will never forget. That is why I begin the ending of the exhibition that surveys the full range of the Victorian nude, both male and female. It is here I have touched a huge stone powdering in my hands. I smell your coming like these black ants among the orange peels. I yearn to taste your growth in another morning milk. But everything is grey with its true colour. I lie to tell the true. You look at these structures that are rough but look the same from far away and close by. You do not know what you want to provide for yourself. Suddenly, the whirlwinds descend from the trees in the clouds. A kite is the tail of each whirlwind. A warm air in violets, reds and blues coming passing by. You see men of the business acumen in their suits descending on the staircase made of something almost like broomsticks. One of them is William Johnson, who is adamant that he is not going to quit after losing huge sums of dollars. I have been working for him on an ad hoc basis. Maybe the walls afford some protection from the wind for him. The young man looks at him. He has not seen that someone lies in a pool of blood in his corner. Three police officers stop by. Hi! You’re under arrest! The older officer of them with Adam’s apple says. What’s that for? a lady says sharply. She has just emerged from the grocery store behind him. She is as agile as a monkey. She starts kissing him and he is all there, thinking nothing. He has an allergic reaction to the bee sting. That kiss is a bee sting. The officers stare at them aghast. They are embarrassed. She adds: I’m sorry for this picture. He’s my man. We’ve lost our office keys and that’s why he’s here looking for them. The officers are looking at his hands which are full of blood stains. The largest of them asks: What’re these stains on your hands for? They’re the stains of my lipstick, the lady answers. The office smells and they are lipstick stains. His mouth is full of lipstick stains. His green suit is stained with this red lipstick. The office demands his identity card. Suddenly, he shouts, saying: You’re Philip Deacon, a stockbroker with Broadsheet Online. They handle him back his identity card. At this second, he is completely absorbed in the things around him. With no further ado, the lady stops a taxi and she pulls Mr Deacon in. They travel through the raincloud street to the other side, an affluent suburb of The City. Time and again he steals glance at her, who is having her head on his left shoulder. She says: I know you’ve many questions to ask me and I’m ready to answer each of them. Can we begin? Yes, I’ve and who’re you? I’m Sarah Billingham and what about you? I’m that name and to add something to this, I was trained as medieval art historian. I’m here looking for something new to be added this. I’m looking for an artist who can make bold abstractions using what at first glance appearing to be primary dirty colours and basic shapes that are arranged haphazardly. He is 37 however, he wears a mask of baby face. His short hair and welly trimmed stubble, moustache and beard make him looks younger. He is a Spanish Canadian. He is looking at someone who is lying supine on the beach chair looking at the fly. You must run a medieval art gallery here instead. It’s very expensive to do this. You can do it. Paint some medieval subjects yourself. Anything goes, you know. She carries sandwiches in a brown paper bag. With the aid of greaseproof paper, she fetches him half of it. He swigs a mouthful with relish. He finds contentment in this gobbling. She looks back and sees the police car following them. She asks the driver to speed up. The car goes through a red light. The police car begins to scream. Somewhere a large river continues the bouvardia streets. The taxi is sailing on the river. The driver smiles. He says coldly: Don’t worry at all. This car’s engine has been adapted to take unleaded fuel and that’s why I can go places. They have seen him in the driving mirror, clenching his teeth in anger. He has a set of false teeth. They look back and there is no police car. However, a dotted line of paints stitched down on the river behind them. Mr Deacon is thinking about this line. Probably he is wondering about those summers piled up on each other ahead of him. The cataclysmic effects of the grey lights in the avenue are the remains of the Romanesque style he has witnessed early this morning. Why are you looking at me in this way? She moans. Is it wrong? I don’t know. She is a Filipino American, very tan. She is slim in an attractive way with shoulder length wavy hair, and about 31 years old. They walk the alleyway. He looks at the graffiti arts on the walls. They show artists in the creation, distribution and displaying of their art. The pictures are the moveable feast and his feelings are like a man on the next wall having reassembled and shattered memories of himself. This piece’s ingenuity of structure remains an excessive tightness and its timing is too cruel to him. Though you are trying too hard to find preface against all expectation. But this is partly a matter of felicitous plotting. There is comedy in every scene with his view of things to thrive on every figure. The graffiti has aided him to take his initial object to investigate himself. To him, this is something central enough to suffice in an intellectually respectable fashion. In a corner near a large refuse container, someone, very old, asks for alms. He holds his bag aloft for him to see that he has nothing on him. Granted, facing the sea ahead of them is easy and pleasant, they enjoy the swash of the sea with howl hashing them from their front. You can see the zigzagged lines of the sea waves, leaving seaweeds behind the white rocks that have become the next domesticated conviviality among the neighbourhoods that share explosive actions and noises from the new dam, so unsuccessfully to construct. Here is closer to the stadium that holds statues. He asks: Who’re these? You cannot tell their sexes because they have no s****l organs. It is their physique that helps you to predicts their s*x. They spend time with them. He does not want to criticize the sloppy works they have so laboriously constructed. Here he can see a family burying a deceased in the clouds not too far the rooftops. He knows how many laws for this action originally define competence so restrictively that the majority of The City dwellers have no will to ask for a paper for this act. They carry flower trees to be planted on its grave. They begin to smoulder. Slowly from the ashes, they resurface somewhere in the clouds with the same action. He does not think of the people suffering from minor ailment again because of the last year flood. They say that a fellow died in the hands of uncomfortable people confined as tightly within their roles. Air hostess passes by. Aircraft carrier passes by in the clouds. An albatross passes by on the beach. They amble down the next street, sipping hot coffee with straws they have bought in the restaurant which is à la carte. Oh, just take whatever you want, she says airily, giving him the dough nuts in the brown paper bag. She senses something is amiss. She pulls him down and they hide behind a flowerpot. She moves with alacrity. The officers are standing somewhere, straining their necks to see what is ahead of them. Somewhere in the arenas many people reject any form of stratification systems. However, where residential towers or apartment blocks have open balconies and residents sit there who are trying to see the levels of the commercial portrays of coupling cologne with nudity. Some are drying their washed clothes on the billboards, placards and streetlights hanging from roofs, some are still having their used materials piled up on the roofs of office towers. Fathers, who have failed to obtain jobs are seen helping their children how to use pencil grips to develop fine motor skills. Time and again he lifts up his eyes to see what is happening with these children who are looking at them instead of paying attention. A child waves him and he waves back. That child is crying and its drop of tears turns into a large lagoon. Fishermen are seen fishing in this lagoon. They catch huge fishes like cichlids, California Halibut, Mudsucker, Pipefishes, Southern Staghorn Sculpin, and Arrow Goby. He remembers that a part of these tears is in the fence. He remembers that the officers are not far from where they are fishing and it is easy for them to fish anything out. They tiptoe and hurry up to join another route. The new sheriff is driving away from the shipwreck in the dyke. Behind the sheriff the space is sheer brilliance with a touch of ugliness. He touches with such a hard work, effort, dependability, and helpfulness. Though there is no consensus among those who walk the street with a document similar difference. He has seen the ambidextrous graffiti artist, who is a Hattian native American, who was in the meeting they had had with the city developers. He is mixing paints to embark on another project. He longs to call him from that long space. The officers stand at anywhere. He cannot risk his space he inhabits now. ...They enter a*****e, where they sell hats.... Suddenly the police officers enter the store.