The knife doesn't know its sharp. It doesn't. Trust me. From the most malevolent curve of dagger to the serrated smile of saw, the knife, for all its expressive appeal, does not know its sharp.
The knife is small, but keen, and probably expensive. I clatter it to the countertop after slicing my apple, and it spins on the stainless steel fulcrum of its bolster. Losing its centrifugal force abruptly, jutting straight out from the counter, seeming insolent in its outright danger to anything that may saunter by. Brushed metal, honed to somewhat of an edge, and quite a bit of a point, with the wrong sharpener and lots of enthusiasm. Sharp. Aching into the air with all the priapic promise of a lover's cock. I grab it by its base and set it right again; the vibration sung by the metal remains in the air, half a second still.
I think, "How dangerous, how irresponsible!", chastising the knife. But, the knife doesn't know.
What happens if the knife knows?
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February 24 Week In Review [Top]
4 hours ago
In a metaphysical/artistic/non-physical sense, was it this woman whom we saw come out tonight atop a poorly constructed wooden box? There was an intensity that seemed to be behind every shake of the hips or glide of the fingers that went beyond what was probably expected, as though your time in the spotlight was not about anyone enjoying watching you but about you enjoying being free and above the drooling masses who either openly gawked and leered or were doing their best to maintain some modicum of composure while still watching you out of the corners of their eyes.
ReplyDeletethanks for coming to the show :-)
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