So it goes, another First Friday Scranton in the books. In a way their monthly occurrence resonates as a sort of Greek tragedy but without the tragedy. Hmmm that’s a bit convoluted. Perhaps more like a docufiction. You know, where there is the overwhelming sense of reality, but interlaced with what seem to be fictional situations that reinforce the reality.
For example, the protagonist finds a bottle with a message on it and is overwhelmed to tell the world its secret. He makes multiple copies hoping to unlock its secret or at least proselytize the masses to seek a common explanation. Meanwhile upstairs the antagonist laments his demise, grinding his ax into a dizzying whirlwind of sonorous notes. That actually happened, March 1, 2013 at the AFA Gallery. It was real and everyone was caught up the act as willing or unwilling participants. So it goes.
Or perhaps, a thread shared by many weaves its way in and out testing the limits of what could be. At times it is peaceful, relaxing, a pastoral link to the past; muted memories that whisk here and there drawn by the hand of Arachne’s relatives. Then again it is also a fleeting glimpse of what could be the fabric of time stretching to look through the present and into the future, a collection of “what could be”. You may have been a part of this bending of time and space at CareNet of Scranton and the Connell Lofts. It was real and everyone was caught up the act as willing or unwilling participants. So it goes.
Maybe you witnessed an apocalyptic vision. Nature only allows one thing to occupy one place at one time per our explanation of physics. Then what is your explanation for the Mayan unification of all four seasons in one room. All at once being set upon by fierce, bitter winds, and blinding snow; engulfed in a hayfeverish rush of lush, vernal greens; baking under the solstice of the summer sun; mesmerized by the myriadic, chromatic bliss of autumn. Maybe it’s the sugar rush or caffeine buzz attacking your senses when you imbibed at another venue or perhaps you wandered into the Scranton Times Building. So it goes.
The mystery deepens even further as you slip into an Escherian world of mixed metaphors and convoluted phrases. Is it some anachronistic dream? Has Rushdie invaded your synaesthetic receptors? All empirical evidence points to the fact that everyone is sharing the same experience. It’s like a dream; a man with a beard and turban walking with mirror; a young woman veiled and seated; both shrouded by clues. What is the answer? So it goes.
Truth be told, no one knows the answer…unless of course you crossed the threshold and had your cards read at Duffy Accessories, or so it goes…
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