What's going on at DelARTe.com: " you don't have to be shoeish........"
Adventures of the FMP:
Butt first: Hommage to Marcel Duchamp: December sent us to the Gallery:
And now....... on with the story:
It’s been said that every end is a new beginning.
Well, this story has an “in the end” beginning to an odyssey.
Now, everybody knows that girls are a diamond dealers best friends:
And furthermore: Some affairs end with violence, as did this one; and it happened on a day that somehow hadn't been going well at all.
Truth be told, it was an ill chosen departure that could have been arranged with a little more grace and consideration, but then, the exchange wasn't supposed to leave some portal open for redress; indeed quite the contrary was to be the case: Terminal separation. So, when Fred popped his surprise by saying: “It’s over between us” while tossing the second admission ticket to the ferry off the crossway into the drink just as he was handing his own ticket to the ticket taker while stepping onto the ferryboat from the pier, it could have been hardly a surprise for him to meet up with an emotional, instant and swift, fare well kick into his behind. So hard was it in fact that the red high heel pump (from here on out to be lovingly referred to as FMP) lodged itself painfully between his cheeks and remained there until later, when it was mercifully removed by a group of sympathetic French tourists also bound for San Francisco.
Susan was always quick on the uptake, and realizing that the right FMP is most likely gone for good and she couldn't really do much walking with only the left left shoe, she turned the shoe left to her into a projectile to be reckoned with and hit Fred on the temple of his head. This occurred with a power and accuracy that contributed much to her own surprise about her spontaneous action. Uncontrollable tears further propelled her resolute turn and hastened her steps, she didn't want to be seen crying and had thus turned immediately to get back to her car without really checking to see if any serious damage, that she might have inflicted, had occurred.
Fred survived, embarrassed and bruised and a bit dazed and bleeding from the forehead. Approving and disapproving murmurs from the crowd ensued all around, even split between Republicans and Democrats; he wasn't sure who murmured to which side, they might not have been certain either. Dizzy or not, having gotten more attention from a crowd than ever before, he decided to keep both FMP’s for further consideration: Perhaps as evidence for some legal action that might suggest itself later, or at least a Voodoo object to get some modicum of satisfaction with the aid of some hair pins, or......?!?
As he was not particularly yearning for any more notoriety just that minute he sought to quench pain and ego at the ship's bar.
The FMP’s placed on the bar next to his drink created a bit of a stir. The quizzing glances from all the people about the room and some cautious yet surprisingly direct inquiries from perfect (and not so perfect) strangers as to the origin, or possible purpose, of the shoes coloring his drinks by way of refraction made him soon realize he was onto something; something bigger than what his usual everyday activities customarily yielded. Three more drinks had convinced his courage and his ego to devise a somewhat nasty, but perhaps fun, plan to have some venting for all his pent up anger and confusion in the hope to restore his ego to its former, ..... its former, .... well: "Glory".
It didn't take long to formulate a worthy strategy; camera in pocket he soon took the first step. He knew that technically the FMP’s didn’t really belong to him, although they had, in a way, been “given” to him (affirmation by way of body language.) It was among such considerations that his plan had festered and had ultimately fermented: Postcards, photo-postcards, involving one or both shoes, from wherever he went, shoe in hand: sent to her office for everyone to see and ask.......
It was thus that the story began, besides, he had seen some movie, some time ago that aided and abetted his thoughts; subliminally.
Any activity pursued to excess will soon turn into a compulsion; or worse.
At the very least one can expect consequences. Messing about with the FMP’s in public immediately yielded pay off, at first the inquiries demanded ever ready and immediate responses, custom tailored to whoever was asking or demanding. A FAQ-list (Frequently Asked Question - list) had to be constructed simply because there were no discernable patterns to be divined; old and young would ask, or at least stare, demanding some sort of response and without a predictable audience group all possibilities had to be accommodated. Writing these responses proved to be a formidable task, though not an entirely disagreeable one. There was an undeniable element of fun and satire in all of this, so, why not rejoice in it, wallow in it! For the time being all the postcards prepared at an earlier time were sent. One card a day; though I am not sure if the purpose of this activity remained entirely in focus any longer, it had sounded better .... well, on paper, so to speak.
Where to take this from here? Clearly, the edge had to be honed to “up the ante”, so to speak. A computer port was soon fitted to the back of one of the heels. People would still ask, but some of the audience got clearly lost in the shuffle. Placing demands on the untrained eye limited the responders to a more sophisticated (in the true sense of the word) audience and thus shifted the demands on the FAQ-list (Frequently Asked Questions) to yet another gravity. Susan was soon forgotten, or at least lost in the buzz of activity that ensued. Drowned out by statements like; "Broad band is it?", "Is that USB2 or USB3" and "I haven't seen one of these in a long time".... forgotten. Or was she?
I suppose it was inevitable that the serial port emanating from the FMP was mirthfully plugged into an available laptop along with a lot of “hee, hee’s” and “ha, ha’s” with a full expectation of no appreciable results. Well, tempting the PC-gods is never an advisable thing to do. The reactions of the PC were surprising: When using a photo editing program the shoe pictures would suddenly and spontaneously convolute by way of a short circuit in the cable, a short that must have been created by clipping the cable with a single snap of the pliers leaving some of the copper strands bare to allow attaching it to the FMP. Surely one couldn’t do this if one tried and yet there it was, rapidly grabbing and convoluting all images in the subdirectory, an automatic (Van Neumann - type) macro had been inadvertently created. No stopping the activity until the cord was yanked from its moorings resulting in the need for a hard reboot and recessing the op-system to an earlier, known good, boot sequence. Just remembering how to do this took some time……..Groans ensued all around.
A more low-tech remedy was needed, this gave rebirth to an earlier plan and thus a tantalizing Voodoo shrine evolved passed some unsatisfactory failed "bed of roses" concept. Because of the auto-macro the shrine was initially aimed at Microsoft and its lack of protecting the system, but reason had little to do with things and it was soon re-purposed under the influence of some serious accelerant (coffee) in pursuit of the original quest: Revenge. Back on track, but a bit uncertain about the purpose of it all Fred rattled off several incantations he had retrieved from the Internet under pressure from his new found audience.
Not seeing an immediate effect of such efforts dampened the impact of the exercise considerably; still, there was an element of juvenile satisfaction in the procedure itself, bordering on magic, ..... power!
Things got progressively bizarre....... Arrrrrrrrgh!!! He woke in a sweat, with a start followed by ice cold shivers. Had he been sleeping all this time, dreaming? Perhaps unconscious from the blow to his head? Rubbing his eyes did not help. If he had dreamed all of this why was was he still tired? His eyelids were getting heavy again, heavy, heavy, sweet relaxation just around the bend. Was giving in an option? As horrid as it all seemed at the time this was better than most movies. He decided to give into his desire for rest and peace and enjoy the ride.
Things seemed tame enough now which lulled him right back into what may have been a dream ..... deep, deeper, restful.
Guinea pigs? Oy! He startled once more before going in deeper.
Can you overdose on coffle in a dream?
The shoe kept resurfacing as a guiding image thread, in spite of all the concentration against exactly this, the more he tried to extricate himself, the more he seemed to succumb to his own susceptibility.
The effect was immediate and devastating, aside from being unexpected. Suddenly images kept bombarding him from all directions and with all manner of subjects, a brush dipped into a psychological painting pallet that would have been a joy to Sigmund Freud. All that had been cruising through his mind lately had found conceptual expression in some convoluted freak show of pictures:
What must have to do with their first meeting at the library.
The "three shoes for one sale" at the accessory store, still didn't make much sense.
The quaint Italian restaurant where they had their first lunch, the one
with all the odd artworks on the wall that gave wings to their conversation:
Confusing, very confusing, but more images kept bubbling up and bobbing about.
Then he remembered the letters; he remembered the letters he had sent, they must be on the internet by now!
Reason, by this time, had gone out to lunch as all kinds of raw images made their debut.
At least all the pictures had a common thread, something to latch on to: Obsession! Obsession!!!
Must wake up, must wake up, he thought.
But he had forgotten how to get out of his trance, something about counting .... Surely not sheep. He should have listened to what his mother had always said. Alas, he didn't listen then either.
Other things kept morphing, possibilities suggested themselves .... a disconnect ensued.
But it just wasn't the same, things could never be the same!?
Nothing clicked, nothing to click; the only thing certain was: This wasn't Kansas anymore, but then it may never have been Kansas.
Back to counting, ....but counting what? ........
Most certainly not squirrels. No, not squirrels
How did we get into squirrels anyway? Guinea pigs yes, I mean they at least served to test her boy friends for suitability to her purpose, but squirrels? Squirrels?! Surely Carl Jung would have something to say about this. He was slowly morphing to play his own analyst
.... must stop! S T O P !!!
The following image was even more unsetteling: Susan, gearing up to get her ticket back out of the water!?
Now he knew this couldn't be real;
after all she was a hydrophobic claustrophobic with a propensity toward acrophobia
and how come she had a red shoe left? Right, eh?! Hahaaa! A triumph of logic,
a winning streak of his intellect,
or was it? He remembered the "three for one" sale ..... that explained the additional red shoe.
No way out, no way out, got to wake! But what was he supposed to count? ........Backwards.
The images morphed and mellowed again as he devoted less energy to his struggle to get back out.
Visions of Christmases past floated by; ahhhhh, the good old days.
No sooner had he thought such, when the red shoe reappeared, in yet another incarnation.
Outsch! Was there to be no end to this madness?
Soon to be continued......
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