DAy 93

I wrote this in class this week and really want to do something with it, but I'm not sure what.

The volcanic man painted the murals with his hands, taking off gloves as dark as charcoal, revealing hands the shade of pertrified wood with running, throbbing veins of liquid hot rock. He would grab something in his hands, if it was small, he would use only one, but if it was larger, he would use both and press his palms together. First, the edges of the object would quiver and lose form, then steam and smoke mingled together would rise up, ash and carbon riding white plumes upward as structure gave and solid became soupy, pliable. Today, it was a red plastic condiment bottle, which he poured out empty, then rinsed clean in the kithcen of the small kiask in the EAstern terminal of the airport and then walked ot the windows by Departure Gate 56 and did his art, watching as the plastic bottle melted away, flowing over his palm and down his arm, but like an expert was able to catch it all, and with the pointer and middle fingers of his opposite hand, took a heavy glob of the boiling red and lacquered it to the glass in a powerful left to right arc. The "paint" bubbled on the glass and steamed the surrounding area. JoAnna had watched him work this mural out of boarding signs, copper wire, trashcans, bottles, jars, leather shoe polish, and now red, right in the center, his movements large and quick as to not lose his medium to the cold air of the airport. It was always sixty eight degrees in the airport, always, and he had to keep pumping in heat.