we sat down for lunch in a place where the picture on the wall was a photograph of a city with many bicycles. somewhere in the sky area, right over that motorola-wings advertising on one of the shops, was a dead fly. it must have been trapped between the glass and the picture for a while until somebody just smashed it. now it was there forever, looking pretty much like a fighter jet with an exploding cockpit. a horrible thought either way.
all the bicycle riders seemed to stare at the explosion in the sky.
though they never met, in any way, well they did, now, somehow...
the question over lunch was if it is a better idea to turn oneself into a bright and fragrant flower, one that could be known among bees for the right reasons and among dung bugs for all the wrong reasons, or if one should just take things down the more winding path and just work towards becoming a tree.
I was definitely for tree... I was not very discouraged by the bright and attractive flowers around me. May they have petals the size of dinner plates and be as fragrant as chanel #5... I was not worried...
And so the lunch was not a bad lunch at all.
On the way back to the office, I picked up three seeds from the street. A truck must have crushed their protective hull and they would certainly not turn into anything major on that concrete corner of 50th and 8th.
They are still in my pocket. I will push them into the soil later this week. It will take them months to turn into those brilliant little guys... I think they will be fun. Their mother tree looked like one that still remembered when the neighborhood was packed with gangs. west side story...
i wonder if that fly, in that picture, planned to become something. and i know we all agree that it did not. but who says we ever actually do? Staring out into our three second attention windows... (They were three seconds weren't they?)