If I were a billionaire—funny, I didn’t know how to spell billionaire—I would commission an airship. I would specify that it go no faster than sixty miles an hour, fly no higher than two hundred feet, and have berths with feather beds. In the lounge, a Bosendorfer Grand would be played; and while I dressed for dinner, a gracious bartender would prepare drinks. All of the windows could open, and there would be an outside balcony to receive waves from mermaids. I would call it The Airship Solace. On her maiden voyage, I would invite you along, and when you ask, “where are we going?” I would say, “not here!”

But you see, I have little money and live in a treehouse with two toucans. They came to me from the toucan shelter just down the road. If you are an artist, you can visit us on odd number weekdays, scientists on even days. On Saturdays, all are invited.

The girl from the toucan shelter comes Sunday evenings, but she leaves in the morning.

Note: Solace is neither utopian nor dystopian. More like a bridge between the two. More like a puppy stolen in Maine trying to find its way home from Florida. Or like an ostrich keeping its head in a hole, waiting for the calamity to end.


Image at top: Todd Watts, Solace, 66 x 46 in., 2019.