THE MUMBLING ORCA
Last week, after the three monthly summer-brake, I brought Gala to school.
We have our routines. This morning I came up with an oldie. ‘Have I ever told you…’ and then Gala (with a bored expression on her face) has to answer ‘yes, daddy…’ I ask her what it is I want to say and she responds that I want to tell her how much I love her.
That morning I came with a follow up. I said to be worried, I might ask her this for the rest of my long, long life. I hoped to see her bored face once again.
Wrong.
She liked it. She even hoped to hear a sepulchral voice coming up from between the pebbles asking the same question, while visiting my grave.
I contradicted. I don't want to be buried or set on fire. It is my wish (neatly cut in small pieces and kept fresh in the freezer) to be fed to the sharks. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, nothing should get lost and sharks are magnificent animals.
Gala could hardly wait to go to the aquarium. This was much more fun than a graveyard. A shark with his belly full of me would surface and ask her the same old question.
The idea developed. She could take me out for walks in a fishbowl on wheels, holding me by my fin.
It reminded me of Damien Hirst * and his sharks… This could bring Gala fame and fortune. My watery hollow voice would be heard in many tv shows (art shows as well as nature series).
Quite a better way to conquer the world then done by that other now allready almost forgotten artist, who apparently strangled her cat and made a bag out of its skin (word goes, she did not have the guts to strangle the cat herself).
Why did Tinkebell * not record the screaming while slaughtering her beloved animal? Bag is cat. Its deadly scream heard while unzipping the bag, would be the cherry on top of the cake...
Artists should help each other out. I have thought about suggesting her to do the same with a depressed boy friend.
Many artists feel lonesome and misunderstood but with a neatly constructed back pack, there is no need for feeling lonesome anymore.
You travel alone, you walk along an abyss, open the backpack for a sandwhich with honey and you hear the desperate scream echo between the mountaintops.
Most important about a piece of art is the deeper message it transmits.
The backpack shows nothing gets lost.
To my mind not only the body disintegrates and is the source for plants and more, even with the soul the same thing occurs. In the song of a blackbird I hear my grandmother calling me for tea and donuts, in the barking of a dog I hear my long dead cat asking me to open the door…
But back to my sweet daughter.
Gala then suggested a whale. This would make for a real big father. Finally we went for an orca.
Disadvantage will be the long trip with all the Tupperware * cups filled with my skull, legs and bottom. But they are great beasts.
I mentioned the orca show in America ending with a not perfectly trained orca having one of the trainers for lunch. It must have been a fascinating sight, the aquarium slowly turning pink. She'd better watch out...
But it gives me the happy hope for a quick reunion of father and daughter in the after life.
A mumbling orca…
Just one of those nice morning talks walking my girl to school.
Barcelona, 2016.
*: When you click on the grey words, you will find information on the people and products in a new window.
