Time to Repair

This morning I woke up with superpowers. And then I subsequently lost them a half-hour later. I'll spend the rest of the afternoon trying to get them back. Then you'll see something neat. Something along the lines of jumping over buildings and throwing cars and getting cats out of trees.

I need you to come over here and repair my disposition. Fix me up enough to send me lurching out to whatever events are going on this week, set my head nodding and a smile on my face. A genuine smile, not one of those squirming fake ones that are both exquisite and painful to behold.

I worked by candlelight for about an hour last night. It was a novel idea, though I kept having visions of something catching fire. Fortunate that real life is far less dramatic than the stories. No fires. No breaking glass. No Frankenstein's Monster spasming to life and tromping through the laboratory to wreak terrible vengeance.

Implied kinetic motion. That's what I've been telling people when they suggest my sculptures should have movement. The intent is to suggest movement. Having these things hop around would cause all sorts of new problems. I've got enough worries. Although I suppose there is merit in employing some sort of self-destruct mechanism, where the work implodes after the show. After you've seen it. Anything else though, and it would be an opening of horrors: art piece that roars to life, assaults guests, scoops up the swooning maiden, crashes through the door, and trundles off into the night.

For posterity, the verbs in that last sentence were roars, assaults, scoops, crashes, and trundles. That's amazing; now I have to build it.