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Inspired byCreate image Churrigueresque Psychosomatic Magicalism Kalachakra Modernismo Fata Morgana
We found the town in a secondhand shop, between a broken toaster and somebody’s unsuccessful marriage, represented by six wineglasses.
It was painted on a board.
A woman with branches growing out of her hair stood beside a skeleton wearing an expensive shawl. There were black cats, several unfinished gods, and a married couple who had been waiting for their photograph since 1908.
“How much?” I asked.
“Eight dollars,” said the proprietor. “The inhabitants pay their own utilities.”
Maja carried it home under her arm.
That evening we hung it above the kitchen table. The skeleton looked relieved. Apparently the toaster had been terrible company.
We ate soup beneath a large face whose eyes had gone somewhere without leaving an address.
“Fata Morgana,” Maja said.
I thought she was naming the woman with the branches.
“It’s a mirage. Sometimes you see a city where there’s only water.”
We lived forty miles from the ocean. Still, I put a towel beneath the painting.
Around midnight someone knocked.
A small man in a black suit stood inside the bottom corner of the picture. He held a suitcase no larger than a postage stamp.
“Is this the coast?” he asked.
“Eventually.”
He sat down to wait.
By morning the towel was wet.
