Jack of Hearts
12-23-2010, 03:54 AM
Untitled Composition 22
He ran his hand along the varnish; it was good. He rolled the chair away from the desk and took a minute. A minute was taken to examine it as it were, a finely crafted piece of furniture. Of its craftsmanship there could be no question. Dark maple. Slacks weren't so good for getting down on the knees, but he did it anyway to get a better view.
It was so polished the wood had scarcely a pattern. It didn't seem to be of the earth. For all it's reflection it seemed to be of heaven- and in it his reflection was judgmental. Never mind, he followed the edges, inching his knees along the grand grey carpet, wrinkling his slacks. The desk was large and sturdy. Underneath he traced his hand. It hit near a corner.
He took off his wire-frame glasses and leaned under to see. He was now on all fours. True, it was a corner, but tucked out of sight there was a structural support. It was hideous by comparison, completely at odds with the flow of the desk itself- an odd piece of function. It was necessary, he had to admit. The desk needed it lest everything should collapse. But he still found himself grieving that necessary thing. Whatever its function, its existence haunted him. He existed in the world with that little necessary, structural support and there was nothing more to it.
He fell to his side and began to sob. His body contorted to fit the space beneath the desk. No one else was in his office, no one else heard. Never was there a more Japanese man than Mr. Truman; never for the rest of his life did any other citizens of any other country more occupy his heart.
He ran his hand along the varnish; it was good. He rolled the chair away from the desk and took a minute. A minute was taken to examine it as it were, a finely crafted piece of furniture. Of its craftsmanship there could be no question. Dark maple. Slacks weren't so good for getting down on the knees, but he did it anyway to get a better view.
It was so polished the wood had scarcely a pattern. It didn't seem to be of the earth. For all it's reflection it seemed to be of heaven- and in it his reflection was judgmental. Never mind, he followed the edges, inching his knees along the grand grey carpet, wrinkling his slacks. The desk was large and sturdy. Underneath he traced his hand. It hit near a corner.
He took off his wire-frame glasses and leaned under to see. He was now on all fours. True, it was a corner, but tucked out of sight there was a structural support. It was hideous by comparison, completely at odds with the flow of the desk itself- an odd piece of function. It was necessary, he had to admit. The desk needed it lest everything should collapse. But he still found himself grieving that necessary thing. Whatever its function, its existence haunted him. He existed in the world with that little necessary, structural support and there was nothing more to it.
He fell to his side and began to sob. His body contorted to fit the space beneath the desk. No one else was in his office, no one else heard. Never was there a more Japanese man than Mr. Truman; never for the rest of his life did any other citizens of any other country more occupy his heart.