Breakfast


There’s a frying pan by the front door.  It’s been there for several days.  When you have children you don’t question these things as much as you might if you were still single.  You just accept the frying pan’s unconventional location and move on.  You accept that it has some validity of purpose unbeknownst to you, or at the very least, it blends into the rest of the house and makes sense on an unconscious level.

Art is like having children.  There is a moving swirl of chaos that holds some profound and childlike meaning within its core, but for those of us on the outside, those of us too busy with important things to question why the frying pan is there to begin with, it doesn’t readily give up its secret.  

Or maybe its those who don't question it that receive the reward such abstraction has to offer.  If you demand meaning from the very beginning, you rob yourself the joy of an unexpected ending.  Perhaps we should all have frying pans beside our front doors.