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It came to me one day as something just short of a revelation.
The strangest thing was happening. I would say something like, "Wouldn't it be neat if . . . we should do that as a house event!" to my Cody house mates.
Oddly enough, these neat things would come to pass. Only in retrospect did I notice that it was by my nearly solitary hand that they did indeed become realized. A deliciously absurd formal dinner at our table in Fung, and not one, but TWO coffeehouses with exquisite treats, baked by myself . . . it was then that I realized that I would make an ideal Literary and Creative Arts Commissioner.
When I noticed that I spent my entire reading week, not studying math as I should have, but constructing an elaborate cardboard sculpture for no finer reason than an inspiration from Borges, I was nearly convinced.
It was when I looked appraisingly into the face of my past that I was converted. Scenes flashed before me in a dizzying torrent--
"Stop it!" I cried. "This is only an electoral-type flashback, not a near-death experience! Cut the melodrama already!"
My subconscious complied, and presented these to me in a much more organized and repeatable format.
I saw my mother when I was a child, and a house filled with her artwork. I recalled how just the other week she told me that she was now heading a local art council and had some of her works in an auction.
I saw myself falling in love with Henry Miller at the tender age of 16.
I saw the heaps of poetry that I wrote in that same year, and fondly recalled the coffeehouses I preformed them at.
I saw the bitter war between my art and english teachers as to which of the respective disciplines I should pursue in future study.
I saw the year I spent at Sheridan College drawing naked people and playing with cardboard, and how I narrowly escaped becoming an illustrator by profession.
I saw the increasing internalization of all these artistic urges, which expressed themselves in me as outlandish costume.
I saw how I enjoyed the throngs of admirers, armed with cameras, at the Pride Day parade last year and how each one projected their secret hopes and desires onto the disco-ball bra that I had so lovingly crafted and worn for their viewing pleasure.
You see, I have become art, in a sense.
I will struggle no longer, and yield to the ecstatic realization.
All that is left is for you to vote for me.
© 1997 cosmobimbo@hotmail.com
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