HIDDEN IN THE INTERSTICES of the great machine, great work is done in anonymity by those for whom the work itself is reward enough.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
We, we are loam. Loam... Sweet, rich, black, moist soil. Soil filled with summer, full of fall, pregnant with joy; food. Food for food and all that creeps, peeps, or sneezes: Home. Home. Yes. We, we are loam. Loam.
,,Bei seiner Geburt schwebte eine bestimmte suesse Ruhe ueber das Zimmer. Die Stille legte sich wie Engelfluegel ueber dem Neugeborenen. Nur schade, denn hinter ihm tänzelte eine Herkunft endloser Schrecken und Fuerchterlichkeiten wie abgeschabten Vorhänge im Seewind."
It is with these words that the story of the artist, Appleleaf, begins. In a sense, it is with those words that the story of this artist also ends.
Because, you see, there is no artist by the name of Appleleaf. An artist by this name was never born – as far as we are aware – and therefore, in all likelihood,never died.
He lives only in the infinite imagination. In short, he never lived. It is for exactly this reason that there is no true and verifiable history of the artist, Appleleaf.
Therefore, beware. Give credence neither to the story nor to its protagonist.
It should be instantly clear that the story of Appleleaf offers no heroics. There are no heroes in this recollection, merely damaged survivors and otherwise sentient flotsam.