Frame Head

There once lived a man or a woman – in a kind of a town devoted to visual arts. It (for I shouldn’t decide on the gender) did not have any name, just a curious gap in the head. Some people – meeting en face – described It as a sensitive type, preferably using such words as romantic, desirable, keen. However, getting to know Its profile, they could only exclaim grosh and weirsh – hushing hast’ly resounded hissing. And the case being – Its curious gap in the head.

Thence they wondered – for an instant or two – how could this undoubtedly pleasant en face human being wear incredibly hollow unwelcoming profile. But thereafter discovered (with fun) that might get a new look on the things through Its skull-shaped, yet convenient gap. Thus, followed with inviting It to any place they were excited with. There, while some should involve in a kind of a chatty distraction, the audience would comprehend through Its head as a frame.

Not that It didn’t know the purpose of all these decoys, still indulged their weird wanting for gross entertainments. Though, questioned Itself, how the picture is changed through Its head…

It couldn’t ask them. It was shy to speak about Its gap. It actually always pretended to live like a normal gapless human being, without ever noticing amazement of others. So, It smiled in return to Its en face encounter, while attempting to catch but an echo of murmured and mumbled impressions they got through Its head.

One day in a kind of museum It heard…
‘Now this is bizarre…’
When Its head framed within the painting of Van Gogh’s “…skeleton with a burning cigarette”…
‘Feels like watching two sides of a man: evil skull to the right as opposed to keen tip of a smile.’
‘Here’s an image of split personality!’
‘One is either way lit, when another portrays an example of hollow morality.’
‘Whatever sense, they fit.’

Some another a bit lucky time It eavesdropped on them, facing the walls of a cinema, being distracted by blabber of young and provocative miss…
‘What is this, French erotica?’
“Emmanuelle”.
‘Feels like action takes place in the head, like a thought thus desirable that can be surely delivered to madness.’
‘Here’s an image of perversive mind!’
‘But perversive is one, if before never had met such frenzy?’
‘Either way, makes me wish to be there.’
…to the carnoval groans.

Later then It succeeded to grasp a few breaths from their whispers of Lee Lawrie’s “Atlas”…
‘Well, that’s quite a romantic athlete!’
‘Now, this one is holding the skull-sky!’
‘Or struggles through frame of the head to unseal but at last his vast powers...’
‘All in all, through the gap – he’s too small.’

Then, It just got enough.
Of them – analyzing, bethinking, unlinking and binding together a duck and a pig’s tail – It just got enough. And It cancelled them all, all at once – all their whim invitations. Closed Itself shut from any connections, abandoning visual arts.

Not that It didn’t relish the arts, yet It wouldn’t go out to see them. Those men were the case. Whereof It – in wicked unrest – beleaguered Itself with the question: why don’t they just use their own heads…

That night It was drawn to the music. Sat on the chair and listened to crackle of tape in Its gap in the head. The frame was painted blues. It sat with closed eyes, split into glimmering shreds, unsealed to the mind of the universe. Only thus, the scraps of knowledge would be wed …

Then, they sneaked to Its home…
_________
They said It donated Its head.
On the 29th day of the moon...