|"shifting focus and the real-surreal, art and science of perspective"
||[Apr. 19th, 2009|11:24 am]
A different scene. A girl, lying on a couch. Burgundy leather, stuffed. Her head is propped up on a pillow on the couch arm, eyes gazing out the window of his study. |
He is Dr. X. Mystical degrees from places she's never heard of decorate his walls. The University of Foostreat, in Dularmrask, Eurtrovenia? And a painting of a girl wearing just a nightgown, standing in a meadow, looking at the moon.
The painting girl has boyish-girlish features. Her hair is short and hanging how it wants. Her breasts and butt halves just small mounds in the soft white nightgown, thin as curtain sheers that barely curtain off her skin.
The couch girl finds the painting girl attractive. It's hard not to, no matter how your hormone compass swings. But the attraction, though a thing she won't deny, is not quite strong enough to fully settle in her jeans.
It's strong enough for him. Dr. X is sitting in a matching leather, armchair. Left leg crossed, notepad resting on his lap. He's writing something in a scrawl only he, and professional cryptographers, could ever read.
The couch girl is lying in his field of view, between the leather armchair and the painting on the wall. He likes perspective and a sense of place. As he sees it, "place" is just a conscious recognition of a life that lives inside a sphere of "space," inside a sphere of "time."
As he also sees it, analogies are just crude, rough sketches of what's real. They have natural limitations. As in the analogy above, where the spheres of space and time are similar to a ball in dimensional direction. But with no limit to extent or variation in direction, they are balls without the limits of a physical existence.
The couch girl sees this too. Everyone does. What we see and know is buried in our genes. It's how we think. Reflected in what we make and do. Understanding it, though, by following the constant wiki linking-linking in our heads -- is the something else we deal with every day.
The couch girl has been talking about a boy. Two boys. One real-surreal in flesh. One real-surreal in words.
"And you think this is confusing -- how?" Dr. X asks.
"Not sure," the girl answers.
"Okay. And what you mean by "truth," is a determination of what's real?"
"Yeah. Or, maybe not."
There's no response. The girl turns her head and looks back, past the couch arm. He's sitting in a semi-slouch, staring at his notepad. She turns back and looks back out the study window. "And you think this is confusing -- how?" she asks.
He breath laughs. "What? You want to trade places, so soon?"
She looks back at him again. "Sure."
He gets up. She gets up and walks the long way around the coffee table. He lies out on the couch. She settles in the chair, picking up his notepad. On it in the margins and around the words, are a dozen doodles -- lines in different geometric shapes. And a drawing of a girl. She's lying on a sleeping bag "after some exercise" inside a shelter. She's lying beside a boy without a face.
"You never draw his face," the girl says.
"You never give it any life," the doctor answers.
She pauses, looking at the drawing. "I'm thinking you are either the model of a consummate, bullshit artist, or ..." she trails off.
"Brilliant?" he adds.
"Yeah. But brilliant with an anti-shine."
20090419 11:08 Sun (580 words)