The dome, it is nice here on the prairie.  The dome, the sky, it is highly varied and expansive in depth and width.  The dome, the heavens if you will, is home to weather little moderated by ocean or mountains, we are just to far away.  The dome mixes the swirling vortices in seasonal disharmonies and frequent gorgeous crepuscular melodies.  The dome height is articulated by cloud layers rising into the dimensionless.

Dome, the Latin root starts lots of words about mastery and home.  The dome, it is always about above and below.

Mastering height is obviously an advantage.  However, gaining audacious oversight in the absence of high ground requires equipment.  A number of the emotive types gathering here have decided on the expedient of stilts.  Stilt walking is a skill practiced in the circus by clowns and acrobats, it balances them up into the dome above the mundane and sawdust.  Our enfant terribles also value a dominant position, some brag they could dominate a “season or two” in the art world: if they were just noticed.  Maybe not illuminating the world, just shattering it into imaginary but very glittering pieces. So the stilts; from which to throw their emotive bombs.

The stilts construction is from scrap lumber and metal, a financial imperative; but introduces instability. The awkwardness in body mechanics necessary to throw a bomb while perched on stilts probably wasn’t considered.  The momentary, but fatal, lack of skill is a possibility but accepted.

 

 

Many of the skillful, or lucky, elevated emotive types claim they see farther from their constructions. It is more than the honor of being looked up to against the dome, and being master of those below.  We on the unstilted pedestrian plane, notice craters and the countenance of our time. Perhaps willing to credit the anarchists with valor if they showed more mastery up in the dome.

Suspended, maybe, from a trapeze of their lofty and cloudy emotions.

Please rejoin us when we consider…Pointed Issues…next Saturday.