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Dr. Baron Joseph A. Uphoff, H.E

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Member Since: Nov, 2008

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What Ought To Be Done With Time Off
by Dr. Baron Joseph A. Uphoff, H.E
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
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This is a Surrealist Prose Poem with indefinite images.

Shapes were necessary to isolate the gravity of
imagination.  The cubism was irresistible, yet it
leaned in the antique direction.  Looking in on the work
of painting, a room could be seen that was not so
glamorous as the parties in the compositions.  These

were loaded with introspective enjoyment, music,
glasses filled with dreams by young poeple

who were outcast because of their age.  Contrast
blinked into the mind like matted fur.  There was
a table, wooden chairs, an old bottle.  The walls
were spattered with paint otherwise very white, and

the light trickled, emanated by a dusty bulb hanging

from the ceiling on an electric cord.  The diaphanous
glow presented a twilight shadow in the promise of
speculation.  There was nothing with the skirt
lying near the coat hanging on a peg, and
nothing was meant by the slogan blasting

sound in colors pasted to the inside of the door.
The hurts that spent the hours through the
wavy windows floated with isolation and
silence that was noise, echoes, ventilation,
creaking, breathing.  The emisson from the road

gave a roar of specks that hovered in bands of
illumination coming from the chilly sun into the
dry warmth enclosed.  A whole day was filled with
creeping movement until shadows began to obscure
the scars upon the floor.  This was a place
to abandon as it was sinking into the evening.
The other places were magnetic but recessive.
Each generation discovered neglect, outrage,

disillusion, and determination; although hope

could not be recovered, the happiness remained,
a simplistic emotion built upon common
experiences.  Home might be an apartment
decorated with professional assistance, but it remained
superficial and uninhabitable because not

appreciated by the ghosts of struggling invention,
all the things slowly growing, crude and

expressive, blunt and aggravated.  Beauty
intruded, was not welcomed, thus thwarting
the harmony of dissatisfaction.  It remained
to survey the passing attempts at predominance

by eminent failure until realization could happen.
There were objects.  There were actions.  Some

things were memorable.  Others were strange.
Strangeness was attractive; the passages
grew longer, went around corners, through
doorways.  Things were leaning against
walls, cluttering floors, piled on tables

and chairs.  The complete image was a memory

under consideration, scraps, fluttering paper,
the foreign accent of a thrashng breeze tacked
to a bulletin board, walking past, feet invisible;
outgoing thought existed as conversational
suspense in erased yet reflexive perceptions.
Aloud, reality meant the minor pain of necessity.

Quietly, wishes might be unreal and an
experience disregarded while unmindful, while
hypnotized within a presentable drama that
pretended to design the environment which rang
communication.  This meant stage props and

costumes transformed not as belief but as
stuff to do about the problem of helplessness,
not having the right tool or any tools at all.
The instrument that measured fate was
change, the air was, then, fluorescent, dynamic.


Arjuna Library Digital Visual Dream Lab

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Reviewed by Robert Whitford
I liked this one Doctor. It holds together at odd angles and is almost like a trip down the rabbit hole. It starts out as chatter about an art show. Almost as silent and jumbled as the thoughts that run through our minds and we're afraid to voice because we have no idea if anyone would understand. Then at the end it seems to transform into a comment on the masks we reveal to the world..I liked the way it reads, leaving the flow open to some interpretation. Excellent work. Bob
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