When I held half the age I carry today, my written stories
of Frappuccino: The Horse unknowingly,
yet, somehow valiantly, defended my family from divorce. My childish need to share my literary creations
with both my parents did much more than simply please my imaginative mind. It brought them together. I suppose it’s rather ironic that my
ignorance had galloped into our home with such a pertinent vibration that it
had separated the very thought of separation itself. Paradoxically, I had yet to truly begin to
grasp the concept of divorce. I was
simply a mere nine years old; and like the ever-so-odd colon I deposited in the
title of my hopeful, heroic stories, I did not quite have complete
understanding of what exactly the legal separation of paternal entities was. I guess deep down I knew that both the colon
and divorce were necessary in their respective realms, however, there was still
an intellectual piece of the grander puzzle missing, a piece that in hiding,
prevented the full appreciation of cataclysmic events.
Nevertheless, eventually those very cataclysmic events
ensued and divorce struck my family with a bitter, icy blow. That must have been when I began to admire
the pained impressionism behind an unadulterated lack of warmth. For in the bowels of my being, a nonsensical,
fleshy land where conception wonders off to and ingestion flees from, something
frothily churned. And in time, that
froth generated the total and irrefutable abandonment of Frappuccino: The Horse, and the pure, orgastic passion for a frosty,
decaffeinated Frappuccino drink.
When my parents were in love, which they still strangely
are…or rather, when my parents shared a sexual bond, their hereditarily small
bodies eventually led to the conception and consequential birth of yours truly. In turn, their coincidentally shared
chromosomal normality adhered to my being and my height remains just not
that. And so, whenever I sip from the angelic
liquid of the Frappuccino, I must do so with an ever so conscious touch. For caffeine cannot penetrate my fleshy urn
in a similar fashion to the ignorance that once entered my household. And in turn, I routinely declare that I must
squeeze every fraction of an inch I can out of my physical encasement. Yet off in the distant corners of our globe, people habitually utter, “Caffeine
stunts growth.” Hence, because of those people and my vertical situation,
the drug and my body rarely share interactive intervals of chemical
intercourse.
Yet in some strange actualization of underlying, universal,
satirical flow, those very people can
be wrong. People surely were off when they refused to let a specific group of
talented artists exhibit their works in The Salon, the annual state-sponsored
show in France during the nineteenth century.
Nevertheless, accompanied by rejection, Cézanne, Monet, Renoir, and
Degas (among others) persisted in the creation of their impressionistically
obscene perceptions. And now, some 140
years later, I follow in the bristled footprints of their textured styles. I paint in the similar undying lust my
parents connected with and my Frappuccino:
The Horse stories sought so desperately to protect. I impression and ultimately, I form a piece
out of smaller, colorful pieces.
And so I, like the pieces I create, also fashion myself out
of the smaller pieces that stain my own series of peculiar events. These pieces: the horse, the divorce, the
caffeine, and the impressionistically obscene might not perfectly snuggle into
the predetermined shapes of my grander puzzle, but I have come to accept their
simple continuation of learning – for after all, finished puzzles always seem
to remain undone.
I hope to remain unfinished.
- J. A. Kind
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