The Wave

Shannon Talbot

My Wave

Art displayed at the Tacoma Art Museum.

Hyperbolic Paraboloid to be precise. They say you were cut stone by stone. Cut by a machine. How can a machine comprehend something so infinite? I surround myself in your endlessness. I turn right your there. I turn left you are there. Behind me? To infinity you are there. You appear to be straight to the naked eye, but nothing about you is straight. You are curves. As curved as you may be, you have the most jagged points ring to all heights to pierce the sky, begging for more liquid to pour down and fill your depths. A wave, an endless wave. I look upon you and you continue forever as the ocean. Round bubbles. Round curves. Sharp piercing points.

Upon your rolling waves sit bubbles of movement. Some reflect you infinite depths others the infinite reflective light from the sun above. The bubbles wont always sit there. The downpour of Washington’s weather reflects the intensity of the depths that you portray. Drops. Tiny drops that sit. Large drops that run. Giant drops that swallow. All attach themselves down your reflective sides. They add themselves to the storm you toss about. Some of your bubbles collect the water while others allow themselves only to join you. Wet. You feel wet. You see wet. You smell wet. All coupled with chill. The embrace won’t warm you. There is nothing to warm you. It continues into the black depth of your curves and out forever into the black.

Blue the most royal of blue. Down into you depths I go to the rocky bottom. Pressure enormous pressure that sends you spiking up out of the way of those that crash back down. Toss around you bubbles flip them up toss them out your center two becomes five, four becomes three, and three back to four. Tossing them. Where will they land? In all your colors, in all your shapes, in all your infinite depths, what life do you hold?


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