Dancers – Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton

#69…it is June…and matrimonial thoughts…

Published on June 3, 2017May 31, 2017 by herbeaton

The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such. The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?

Matrimony (what this table seems to offer) is based on the future, it is a promise. Sounds nice, but there are always issues from the past enclosed in little emotion bombs (quick to hand) and today’s occurrences of – now, wherever “now” lands.

The following is just conjecture.

“Now” might have been the first meeting, the first fifteen seconds; the dancing began, awkward probably, (an interruption on the way to mundane work?). A bit of prancing about, hiding and showing, bending and bowing, looking and avoiding…afraid to fall?

To that out-of-balance whirl, a dance if you will, unchoreographed bodily truth; something moved on. Both dancers clutching lit anarchist’s bombs: ancient bits and pieces of pain; brought from, visited upon, invented by, bought and cared for – presumably defensive.

Look at this, so soon after their meeting.

What do you think or, what do you know: dropping his bomb would destroy his footing, even if both hands would be free to remove the mask…or dance better, closer.

But, of course, the partner would have to give up her little bomb…and vanity.

But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.

Now meanwhile, out near the peaceful stream, some wine and a little cake await, why?…do you know?

#64…considering manure and weeding…

Published on April 29, 2017April 27, 2017 by herbeaton

Who is going to weed this?

The emotives, artistics visionaries in outlook, have uncovered their agrarian roots. While their tent world is airing, these balmy days call up the genius of gardening. Spring opens all that will come; fruits, vegetables, viney growths, sprouting green goodies, the gentle haze of chartreuse over loamy soil ( a spread of lightly sanded microbial nursery and grave). No bugs yet, just a few bees gathering in the ditches pollinating flowering weeds.

But surely the bugs will come, with associated fears and pain, and the delicate delights now coloring the roadside will spread happily among the rows of newly planted edibles. The elbowing for sunlight, the spreading drinking roots, the happily (are plants happy?) gnarling fertilized stems will need removing. Killing (killing a happy plant?) from these purposeful rows, now neatly tilled valleys of ancient worm graves, will be required. DCS_1682

The circus, as mentioned, uses part of the tent for their menagerie, assuring a plentiful supply of manure to replenish the soil (though not likely to return it to the prelapsarian) but maybe allowing some dance of a sort: a grim pass between danger and delight, beast and grace, weed and fruit, stench and aroma.

Sometimes (maybe always) even the simplest places have layers, some meaning veiling some other meaning. Myth upon measurable truth, nobility upon coarse brutality, angels (the good kind) upon fearsome savage, all contained in a few squares of a measurement; studied surface laid upon the unfathomable. Aromatic manure upon antique compost, all feeding weediness (and so the question – who will weed?)…and maybe…gain fruitfulness.

As spring moves souls and seeds this world of effusive artistics has a plethora of planters. But the garden holds sparse hopes for abundant fruitful harvesting, considering the happy weeds and the plentiful old and new manure, and it being probably bereft of weeders.

Planters are cocky, forward, proud; the harvesters self-congratulatory: but in between must be the weeders (when employable), hot, bug-bit, bent, ill-tempered; maybe also feeding a crotchety delight in killing. Across the road crop farmers use chemicals, kind-of crotchetiness in a bottle.

But, for this artistic’s garden, the only hope is that a disciplined few will be weed editors.

#57…Idle thoughts Illinois and Ballerinas…

Published on March 4, 2017February 28, 2017 by herbeaton

Our balletic prairie, The State of Illinois. Illinois, a graceful ballerina, balances; just look at the map. We are surrounded by a bunch of boxy, less lusciously graceful states, in the great fly-over land, the American midwest.

Illinois, as a ballerina, has a hefty derriere; bounded by, and fondled by, the Father of Waters (maybe a bit inappropriate). Illinois is somewhat flat-chested in outline and topography, but that aids the corn growing, which maintains many derriere’s.

Illinois has a most unfortunate abbreviation…Ill, nobody wants to be in “illness”. Ill is the correct description of its’ unbalanced budget and politics, but not Illinoisans. And while noise is the description of our wind in winter, traffic in the Windy City, and garbled logic from our capitol, we actually don’t pronounce the “s” at the end of Illinois. We prefer a more subtle uninflected, even artistic, spoken language (except for Chicago, where a lot of the people live),

The sound of “Illinois” is rather feminine and, considering the amount of feeding it does for the rest of the world, rather appropriate. It is also births the Mother Road, old Rt. 66, which crosses the prairie in a smooth dancer’s diagonal thrust.

High above our often stormy expanse of sky are many jet contrails, temporarily marking travelers from coastal metropolis to coastal metropolis. With no need of maps or electronic guiding voices few know what is below. Those who might wonder often confuse Illinois with Indiana, Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, Omaha, Oklahoma, Oahu, Ottawa, Ottumwa, and Ionia (which isn’t even in North America), but the sounds are similar.

100_4099 — She Wonders About Her Treasure oil

The vasty prairie of Illinois is where the reunion of the emotive anarchists takes place. Our “rivers gently flowing” have watered a number of artists, including ponderers and dancers of svelte, and even passionate, dimensions.

#57…Idle thoughts Illinois and Ballerinas…

Published on March 4, 2017March 3, 2017 by herbeaton

100_4099

#56…Considering further playful thoughts…

Published on February 28, 2017February 28, 2017 by herbeaton

Parents and grandparents are the audience for most performances by wee ones. As a consequence this post may get a bit boring for those of you who prefer your childishness played out by adults.

The Deciders have decided that the new systemized education (play training) should begin where we expect the children to end up. To that end, The Decider-In-Chief (this is self-named, not what We named anyone; The Deciders are servants to the reunion’s best functioning, shown by their hobby-horse head personae): anyhow, that Decider appointed an announcer, a slick-stick hobby-horse personae, with the duty of introducing the children and their various acts in our recital.

The recital began with a dramatic presentation of the lives of famous hobby-horse cavalrymen. This is definitely old-style dramatization of imagination as portraying goal-focused adventures for youth.

Next was a rather sappy maudlin story of a lost little girl. According to a legend she finds a mysterious decorated cannon-ball, belonging to some knight-errant, prince, or cavalier. Lots of tears as this bit advanced the plot.

Next was an acrobatic review of how much the students had habituated into the arts of dealing with “adult” situations, the somewhat athletic control of emotion bombs.

This was loudly applauded, the skill being accentuated by keeping the propeller spinning. Variations of this were detailed by the announcer.

The closing was an invented ancient ceremonial “Lighting Of The Fuse” with flint and steel, recalling the everlasting need to be prepared to ignite an emotion bomb.

The child playing this scene is probably the best example of the training The Decider -In-Chief advocates for the The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture’s day care.

The audience gasped as a curious errant child came centerstage. The announcer, warning about the bluntly obvious danger, was quickly dealt with by the so-called Decider-In-Chief who also dismissed the curtain call as potentially unruly.

The solution to danger warnings…for the moment. Hopefully, next week we can have some dancing, join us.

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