Bags of Wind

The plastic bag is still tangled in the branches of the plum tree outside the kitchen window. It just flaps all day long, stuck on a bare, winter twig. A bit of man-made detritus skewered on a dead tree tip. It reminds me of the film shown at the art center last year. It consisted solely of a similar bag stuck in a similar tree top. Nothing happened. It just flapped in the wind endlessly, the film looping continuously. No beginning or ending. Futile. Barren. Ugly.

My bag will never be able to untangle itself. I'll have to get the ladder and clip it off. It affronts my sensibilities. I can't leave it there until it dries and tatters and eventually becomes concealed by the leaves.

Makes me wonder why I care. "What does it matter?" Is this a metaphor for the ugliness that has a tangle-hold on the world, that will never free itself, but must be cut out? Who defines what is beautiful or ugly? Or does it just offend my sense of orderliness and control over my immediate environment?

Maybe it is just my way of trying to bring order into the chaos of the cosmos, something I strive to do everyday with my art. I don't think bags blowing in the wind is art, nor do I think bags of wind can define what is art. (Yes, I do mean the double entendre.)

I'll get out there pretty soon and cut it down.