there are those of us live like a skydive. there are those of us who live a job. Mr. Ay may wake up in the morning and think, oh, i will drink coffee with my girlfriend today. i will sell some stocks for a 150% profit and make a mortgage payment. i will buy a turquoise lamp that compliments the grain of my hardwood floor. and then, there is his neighbor Mr. Bee who wakes up in the early afternoon and does not think but rather puts on a coat and sits on his porch with a cup of coffee and stares. wonders how he would go about describing snow to someone who had never seen it before. he walks to the store to buy a loaf of bread, an apple, a jar of peanut butter, a quarter pound of cheddar and on the way back expound the pros and cons of returning to a home which does not bear resemblance to a home. he pays someone so he may live there. if they are going to take his money, he may as well get something out of it. there will be the wish for a home more resemblant to an anchor, not in physical size but in characteristic function and allegorical value. but simultaneously there will be a flash of the english robinson crusoe, who after 28 years stranded on the island, found england a bore and wanted to go back home. robinson has nothing to prove and neither does Mr. Bee. life is an obligatory run through. a practice round for a game that will continually be rained out. the big red curtain.
Mr. Bee lives like a lung. there are elements entering and there are elements leaving, changed. but there is a sacred balance to it all which is understood and never violated. he does not put his hand on anything that the force of nature will not enforce counteraction upon. some call this calculated. Mr. Bee does not call it anything. he does not talk to people unless there is a straight line from object medulla to subject occipital lobe, this is why he does not need to call his way anything. he understands it like a child does not know he already understands everything. he knows it like the back of the hand knows itself.
there is a house he once lived in. a memory remains, though house may be gone forever. it would not make any difference either way, because the memory remains. that period was eventful. he took a bite out of a gingerbread woman for the first time in that house. the act opened a window that he has been trying to close since. not so much for the sake of closing it, but for the sake of being able to. he ate until the gingerbread was consumed and there was nothing remaining but crumbs and a memory- a segue to the memory of a physical window. he would open it and smoke out of it. but the wind would blow the smoke back in. he’d leave the window cracked to air out the room. the smell of smoke in the heaterless room. there are objects in it, but the viewer’s attention is drawn to the empty space in the middle of the floor, making the room an empty space at all times, and a lonely place to look back on, with its smoking window.
