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05.10.2337

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“Nice knife,” repeats some snot nosed little brat.

I look into his face, and he sniffles.  Those eyes look like a cat’s eyes holding either universal understanding or nothing, whichever I decide.  Right now his eyes hold nothing.  We dance the double helix and make way for a sanitation worker pushing a wheeled bucket with his mop to the place where some other snot-nosed little brat recently used another brat’s fist to exchange his running boogers for blood that spread in splatters and smudges over his hands and the floor.

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The bloody boy and his one-fisted compadre had already been removed for corrective discipline by one of the controllers, our life-long friends wearing sunglasses.  Here at school, they only seemed interested in bleeding noses, broken arms, measles, and sharp thrown objects.  Otherwise, they remained impassive statues with feet grown into the anaesceptic environment in which they stood, needing as little attention as a plain white column in an all white room.

It seems odd to me now looking back at them, or looking at them again at any rate, that they only reacted to our feces, blood and agony.  Responsive only to distress, anger or misbehavior.  But this was explained to me that day, even though I didn’t understand it until now.

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Am I surprised when the sanitation guy teaching that day turned his narrow slanted eyes in my direction and says what I’ve been hearing from the stars for years it seems, ‘durability’.  He mentions discipline and art, discipline is that which lets us practice our art.   Durability of our abilities and disipline of our skills.  We must need learn how to reproduce what we do and how we do it.  He explains that the artist is more free to act when discipline has taught him his skills and limitations.

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— everything above is 1:1 source · from eat-the-path · karnemir ↗

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