Some of the best artists I know are those who take bits and scraps and junk and turn them into things of beauty. I have a picture John drew of a rose. It's on a damned post-it note. The rose is so perfect that I can almost smell it, but... the damned yellow post-it! Every time I look at it I feel a mixture of wistful joy and annoyance. I was, and still am, so touched that he drew it for me. It's one of the few things I have of his artwork. At the same time, I just hate that it's on... a damned yellow post-it. Alas. Who am I to bitch? He took what was in front of him and turned it into something rather lovely... and stuck it to the coffee pot.
A damned yellow post-it. On a coffee pot. It's so... John.
I'm off track again. I meant to talk about art. It's gotta be the heat. It sticks to me like a damned yellow post-it. I loathe those things. They've taken over the world. Even so, there is a stack of them right in front of me. There are a few stuck around the area too. Notes that Steve has written to himself, supply lists, motor parts, phone numbers, cryptic jotted bits all - little yellow pieces of paper that somehow mean something.
I remember life before the post-it note. There were still scribbled bits of paper, held down by something heavier to keep from getting blown away or shuffled, or tacked up with tape or a magnet. But, they were different somehow. Different than the damned yellow post-its. They didn't have that tacky strip, that sticky pretend glue thing. I'm somehow as offended by the sticky strip as I am by the pissy yellow color. Yes, I know they come in myriad colors, but to me, they're all pissy yellow.
Those damned pissy yellow post-it notes are almost always about something that needs to be done, something that needs attention. Call this person, buy something, don't forget that, do this, pay that, etc. I once had a co-worker whose sole means of communication (pre email) was to use post-its. I'd get a hello out of her in the morning and the rest came as pissy yellow edicts.
Totally off track now... down the slope and into the woods and lost in a damned pissy yellow stream of paper. Why do these things stir up so much rancor in me? Why such annoyance? I don't really know. They just do. I guess it's just one of my many quirks.
Even so, there's a bit of art that I love... a single rose lovingly drawn with ink... on a damned pissy yellow post-it.
Art in the ugly. Yeah, that's what I meant to say. I'll put it on a post-it note, a damned pissy yellow post-it note, no less, tack it to my computer monitor's edge and write about it someday.
A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.