Quotidian in America - A Manifesto In Four Scenes by Justynn Tyme / 10-2007 Scene 1: In a far off land, just a few inches from where you sit is a pretty meadow, full of poisonous argyle pointing fingers; stemming toward the sky on stalks. When the winds blows they sway about majestically. Then, when, inevitably, a hapless persona, like you or I stumbles on to this plane of existence. Like a swarm of weather vanes in a starch gale, point in our direction. Causing the weakness of persons, or persons unknown, to fly out from underneath shirts and trousers legs like megaton flatulence. Destroying the field, sending trillions of arrows into the clouds; making poisonous pubescent sprinkles. This is life. Scene 2: Through the scattered landscape careen, pirouetting lemmings. Each has a mind yet only one thought among them. Somewhere a watermelon is rotting. Elsewhere the tea is cooling. The calmness of the battered toast is offset by the all out exhaustion of a secular anti-society blundering towards an unavoidable conclusion to all the ponderings. This is existence. Scene 3: A roly poly Frenchman with a boisterous mustache is standing on a crust of stale bread, filling mind after mind with helium. Without a second smile he lets go, and these tethered figures meander through the realms of interest. Heading toward the tailor made atmosphere of frivolous chromatic prescribed desires only to burp back to the marionette régime where most smell the dairy air and not the aroma of the pantomime lifestyle. Yet, there is a queue of the willing echoing through time where the mirage of living still lingers. This is purpose. Scene 4: I have this empty white glazed teapot. Which I fill up with filtered water. The water is not without impurities. I usually place two or three tea bags inside the pot. If I want iced tea, I don't turn on the fire, and the tea bags will slowly seep away, into the water. Slightly darkening the water, little by little, over time. If I want hot tea, I turn the fire on. Soon the water is heated to a terrible boil. Rising steam causes pressure to build up. Sooner or later, no matter where I am I can hear my little teapot scream. When I look inside, in just a matter of minutes the water has become very dark and very hot. Then I empty the water out of my teapot and grow very sad. My teapot is more human then I care to admit. We are not at all alike my teapot and I. We are dada.