Above the zinc sink, disturbing the grout serving the tile… A nail stood, sideways, erect but horizontal, inwards. Held in place by hammer and intention’s force to lodge it right there.
I’d be washing the evening dishes, it was always my week ego tried to tell me… Two boys and a mother. Arguing, resolving, whose turn it was to try decipher the code of the writing on the wall, suspended by the nail up there, a somewhere to something. Wise words. Those words where wise not because we didn’t understand them, but because the inability to understand the words invoked a desire to search their meaning. These words, and tiles, and dishes and thoughts. What will I tell mother today and brother who questions what i say like he’s older than me… I think he is, but I just happened to be born first.
The nail was painted white at some stage to comaflouge it with its surroundings, porcelain tile and grout, tile and grout. and it, in the centre of centres it stood, was… Suspending a plaque of sorts, a declaration in art, speaking in code like one who had learnt so well the secrets, that they understood they needed to keep some of them private and release only enough for the searcher to find… They understood the value of the search for the secrets… But these heathens, who are They to hide secrets in words for us to decipher… Couldn’t it be in plain sight… Obvious… Would it hurt?
“judge each day not by the harvest, but by the seeds you sow”…
The answer for today is, these words speak of the transmutation of Man from what can be described as worthless lead into Gold.