Scenes from Great American Still Life

Long

slow

mildly arduous

semi-pleasant

crossfade

between ad and

afterlife

Memories hang by threads … argument, compromise,

childish prank, always children until one day there is less 

to care about, Dear. And still always more.

Surly teen reinvents

junk-core

ragpicker chic

finds love, dispels family

ennui, honors

history in less than 60 seconds

Narcissist sits on a mountain of garbage in front of 

millions of adoring fans.

Meditation scene.

A panel of experts offers commentary: the meek shall 

inherit the earth. We love how the single braid of hair 

echoes radiant scraps of orange and silver. Careful 

because battery acids and noxious off-gas. A stunning 

event too big for the scales.

Oh Dear.

Over the course of 48 hours, the charismatic icon sucks 

up residual energy using nervous systems to channel 

toxic off-gas into fatty tissues, sinew, and synapse. A 

unique talent’s singular response to modern excess. Our 

superstar feeds on atomic decay. Homeopathic doses of 

death. Distills the experience into three exquisitely 

formed pieces of excrement that sell on the open market 

to fuel the next litter sit. And so it goes.

Before

During

After

In

Between

Scenes

Stop for a second, listen to the slow steady grind. The 

sound of gravity is subtle and satisfying. Gum wrapper 

leaves her hand, hovers for one millionth of a moment 

before it flutters to the ground. Wait …  but it’s too late. 

She walks briskly to the bus stop chewing and checking 

phone. Said wrapper nestles in summer’s green-gray grass 

already hinting at changing season.

Truth is it’s impossible.

To  hear atmospheric pressure weighing on branch and 

blade, chit and foil, self and other. But imagination runs 

wild at twilight, racing toward dark bedrooms with eyes 

closed and ears wide open. From the partially torn gum 

wrapper comes delicate waves like a calm lake caressing 

shore. Nothing moves yet there is an unending 

symphony of unseen, inaudible activity from said 

wrapper’s resistance to the universe. At the coda I trip 

and fall, get back up, rinse and repeat until one day it 

feels better to rest. Right there on the ground not far 

from a wad of wrappers, crushed cups, kinked straw. To 

rest and listen. To hear music.

Winter spider basks in contact high on an oak tabletop 

near darkening ruby stains. Scenes, Dear, are stackable. 

In another variation, every household microdoses 

hallucinogenic mushrooms with trace amounts of 

nano-plastics. Experiments in abundance and euphoria.

Simple science argues:

body/environment equate given time. Cheetos bag and 

Gatorade bottle seep inside. Spider falls asleep near my 

hand sketching to-go cup pyramids. Scheme and 

schematic for a house of cards where Rube Goldberg 

meets America Pastime. Eventually I sleep with belly full 

of spider drool and byproduct. Polymers create the 

world in their image. We all do.

Paul Druecke is a writer and artist. His ongoing project “America Pastime” was featured in the New York Times “Five We Recommend” series. His work was included in the 2014 Whitney Biennial and anthologized in Blackwell’s Companion to Public Art. He has published two chaplets, “Scenes” (2024) and “Field and Street” (2023) with Ben Tinterstices Editions. “Life and Death on the Bluffs” (2014) and “The Last Days of John Budgen Jr.” (2010) were published by Green Gallery Press.