Working with (Coral Under the Sun) | Stefanie Amundsen | Visual Art

Working With (Coral Under the Sun), Stefanie Amundsen, pottery

that I should abandon my greatest work for a raunchy little couplet! The screensaver is now shut off entirely, and as the sun sets (which I do not watch, in fear of transcendental distraction), the light of the screen becomes my world more fully.

Suddenly, the morning sunrise dulls the harshness of the empty Word document; it reminds me of another plane of reality, and I resolve to staunchly resist all temptations of this physical world which would dare tear me from my manifesto.

But as the morning light blends into a stormy afternoon, I am compelled to piss. My bathroom is a neutral, sand tone, and while on the toilet, I think about this. Sand, sandwich, sand, the walls are made of sand, castles made of sand, look, a golden ship—sand! Sand! Walls of sand, falling, walls of, floors of sand. Images of mathematical equations drawn in sand, a cylinder, a sphere, and suddenly I have it. Archimedes kept a living room of sand into which he could draw out his mind and play with it. I wash my hands and grab a purple crayon.

The walls of the bathroom are now striped vertically, crosshatched diagonally, and overrun with strings of words which lead nowhere except run around every-

where; left wall to right wall to ceiling to my own hands, forehead—there never was a mirror, but now I’ve drawn one in. Myself, a lime-green specter, with stumps for hands and teal cauliflower pouring out of my ears.

The pictures make me forget about my manifesto, and the storm clears to a full moon outside. I like to think the werewolves howl. I put my crayons in the moonlight to rest. I fall asleep on the floor of the pictionarium, eyes wide open and taking in the cartography of a continent which does not exist—a water spot outlined in pink and dotted over in many colors.

I dream about this place, but dreams are not important.

In the morning, I take a red crayon, trace the outlines of my feet, and draw a line on the floor of the bathroom, out into the kitchen, and up to the toaster. I open the breadbox, and some flies buzz out. The bread is all assorted heels, but only some are moldy, so I make myself some clean-heel toast. I trace a line over the countertops to the fridge, pull out some cream cheese, and draw back to the toaster. I jump when the bread pops up, untoasted in matter but crunchy in spirit.

There are no clean knives, and the cream cheese is running low, so I scoop it out with my fingers and eat the cream cheese and then the raw toast. I do not remember my manifesto. I trace the line in circles for a while, spiraling over and over the floor of the kitchen, and sometimes the dog follows the line with me, as curious as I am to see where it will lead next.

“So, we’ll go no more a roving,” I say to the dog.

“For the sword wears out her thief / And Moravian belts are left / Yea it all is good as done / By this time of—”

The church bells ring noon. I drop crayons into the toaster and punch the button down. Melted wax leaks out of the bottom, dripping onto the floor. The toaster begins to smoke. Some smoke swishes out the open window, but I follow a single wisp towards the wretched, empty computer screen.

I stand crayons up on end—green, teal, blue, orange, orange—and light them on fire around the horrid computer. The wax melts into the circuits and seeps between the keys, and the screen lights up a magnificent, pixelated disaster, before it pops and goes black.

The crayons are burning—I added more to the toaster. My feet drown in the hot, liquid wax, and around the house, my footprints follow me. The smoke in the toaster turns to open flames, and as the circle of crayons burn down, the standing desk carries the fire down its legs and onto the floor. My blank feet burn with color; I coat them in crayon, and flames eat my footprints as I dance out of the house.

All the words I could never say burn up today. All of them. They drift upward on flames and embers. My hands drip with wax, and with my toes I write words onto a door which will be ashes soon:

My manifesto is Burning.