The ballerina, a gun, and an errant angel

Porcelain totems

I must confess, I have no idea what the hell the angel is doing. It stands there with a silly smirk that speaks of Oreo cookies and warm milk. Nothing in the world bothers the little dear, as it sings from its little porcelain lips silence. Year in, year out, it comes out of a dark box to sit out for a small amount of sunshine, a glazing of oxygen on its painted visage. Then once the ‘holiday’ is over, back into tissue and darkness it will go.

A bruised wrist, cool wind moving the trees outside, a scent of a chicken breast boiling in water, and of course thoughts about a dead commuter. This morning we laughed about erotic symbols used by Egyptologist’s, such as asps, scepters, pointy pyramids, and perhaps even errant slips of the tongue by old Tut himself. The only reason that the conversation even occurred was due to the “Fatality” located somewhere down the road, around a curve, just north of an off ramp. But we laughed within the moment, knowing that despite everything, we controlled nothing, only our ability to hear one another, to laugh for that captured space of road.

And then we found our rhythm again. The speeds increased, work on both ends of the wave needing to be tended to.

But that brought me back to the porcelain angel. On closer review, the obvious was missed. At some time in past she lost her head, a clean break having occurred from some fall. Neatly the head fits like a puzzle piece onto the body, with the slightest of tells that a scar exists at the separation point. At any time, whether it be a small tremor from deep in the earth, or from a person brushing up against it, the body once again would fall into two pieces. It is an angel that is held together by gravity and stasis.

I’ve warmed to her, to the frailty that she now has. I also have come to appreciate that she stands over the ballerina, silently mouthing psalms for the impending state that exists below her feet. Beauty waiting destruction, and the hope that through some intervention of our better angels we can resist the temptation to seek out frailty for gain.


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About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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