The pieces are everywhere. I get down on my hands and knees as if in prayer in an effort to retrieve them. One at a time. The task is excruciating. There has to be an easier way to do this. I locate the dust pan and hand broom and start sweeping the pieces into a pile. I notice the jagged edges and am reminded of a jigsaw puzzle and contemplate how I’ll reassemble them. There has has to be hundreds of pieces, close to a thousand. Way too many to count. They are wet, sticky and stringy. What a mess. What a FUUUCCCCKKKKING mess I scream aloud. I’ve broken it again.
I sit on the edge of my bed and take a deep breath and stare at the pile on the grey painted peeling ground. Unbelievable. Now what? How do you fix something that has been broken over-and-over-and-over again. I immediately think of the lady on Tik-Tok who Gorilla-glued her hair or eyelids. Gorilla glue, that’s it.
Before this previous crash, I sat back one night and admired the grooves and contours of its obvious repairs. Anyone who saw it up close could see that it was broken before. Most people shy away from broken things. But I think that things that have been broken and repaired are a work of art. Like the wisdom in the Songs of Solomon, some things just have to be experienced, they cannot be taught.
So here I am, again, trying to reverse engineer what has been broken. I begin by separating the pieces: obtuse, triangular, pointy, sharp. They all seem to have an unwritten history. A moment where they graced the stage and performed for life. I see no shape or obvious pattern, yet, I remember what it felt like when it was whole. Or do I? Has it ever been whole? Has it always been broken? I don’t remember there being so many pieces. It seems like for every time its been broken there are more pieces. Ahh, I scream in frustration and wonder if I can realistically repair something that has been broken so many times.
There’s a picture of a strong looking gorilla on the bottle and it has a special spout for intimate detailed repairs. I have spent weeks separating the pieces and none of them seem to fit into place. I am disappointed at myself for believing they would fit, but they don’t. So I begin my project by gluing together the pieces that seem to best fit. This isn’t going to be a pretty process, yet, abstract art and its beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The strands are no longer sticky but dried. I cut the strings that hang from them like shredded muscle striations. They are all dark purple in color like bruises, wounds, and scabs. The exterior of the pieces are flesh like and the interior is smooth and reflective like water. Which makes it easier to differentiate the interior from the exterior pieces. If only I had a blueprint. The Gorilla glue is strong enough to hold the pieces in place as they come together and flow upward in an arc toward the ceiling. It would be so much easier if it was just a straight vertical or horizontal design. I am beginning to see the beauty of its foundation. Half circle arc here. Another half circle arc on the other side and then it drops and swerves like the rails of a rollercoaster. Enough to make my stomach drop and hear the screams of excitement and fear. Uncertainty by everyone on the ride.
DON’T MISS SHELDON JOHNSON’S OTHER STORIES
I’ve concluded I’ll have to sand down the outside to protect future handlers from injuring themselves. Don’t want to discourage people from touching it. Some would say it’s grotesque. Perhaps, I’ll apply some Mahogany shellack, so its pretty like one of those antique nightstands where people aren’t afraid to place their possessions. But I am getting way ahead of myself. There are still jagged holes where the pieces won’t fit. I peak into one of the holes and it’s dark. I see distant scenarios of heartache play on the screen of its shiny black interior. I notice small glimmers of light that intrude through the cracks from the other side. There is light in its darkness.
The glue dries really quick. Unlike my resentment or ability for forgiveness. I am beginning to understand that the breaks were necessary. Inevitable. The darkness of its womb like interior fight with the light shining through the cracks: love & hate. Thin lines. Microscopic fissures in the lining of a membrane. Fracking its Earth in the hopes of discovering Red oil.
I wonder if it’s barren and the Gorilla glue is simply an illusion that it could ever be repaired; that it could ever be whole. Alive. My Frankenstein. Who could withstand your ugliness? Who could see the strength in your beauty? I place the vase-like vessel of my surgery onto the bars to soak up the few Sun rays that make it through; and I walk away.
I am lying down reading when I sense movement through my peripheral vision. It’s moving. Its vein’s are pulsating. It’s alive. It’s alive. It’s alive. It has feeling and humanity. It believes and has faith. It has morals and values. It is nature and nurture. It weighs and judges. It wants and needs. It loves and feeds. It will heal when it bleeds. It is not of the flesh. It cannot be broken.
Sheldon Johnson has been released.
