Palette Change

She feels sick, but she is not the type to tell anyone that that is going through her head. They always expect her to feel great about everything anyway. She is always ready to lend an ear. People come to her. There is no one she goes to.

The sun is weak in the sky today. Weird that the  clouds look so dramatic. A bird lands on the feeder and wrestles for a second; shouldn’t be that hard, and it does get what it needs. Everything shaded oppressive – she knows she needs to change the palette, but how?

She gets dressed and decides to take herself downtown – visit the kite garden; look at the fractal butterfly chaos sculptures; go to Foetus Dreaming Park – where they pipe in self-proliferating ambient visuals and sonic from elected babies sleeping brains. A bug-thug squirts her with the legal limit three minute shopping spree meme, but she counters and fires her patented hack that makes anyone sprayed thereafter want to burn down stores. She laughs.

Some people see this place as hostile but it is an ecosystem like any other – she knows how to surf through; she is minimal impact and maximum yield. The kite garden towers above the city – offers a vertiginous perspective twisting through kaleidoscope colours, narratives dancing amidst random bursts of information all folded up in tesseracting pieces of brightly coloured paper and sticks. She spends half an hour their. Composes and discards a haiku. Buys some Miso soup. Moves on to the Butterfly Engine.

Today there is an interplay occuring – in one corner we have Euclidean geometry, and in the other non-Euclidean. It cycles fast, soundtracked with ambient bursts, feedback squawks and general whitenoise and found-sound. Too chaotic for today – too confusing. She tongues a tab and feels the voidy numbness. Off to epic scale baby art.

She gets kind of fluttery around all this, but it calms her. There is something vast and oceanic about the dreams these little beings paint for the city to enjoy. Foetus Dreaming Park – not always so peaceful, sometimes political, but now an agreed asset. She sat there under the dream of three month old’s prenatal picture of heaven and heard the soft keening of a mother’s heartbeat, and she wept. It set something loose in her; freed up some part  to move that no one ever noticed or touched. Her day brightened. It was time to go home.

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