Jackie Mang

Here at my mother's, all things that surround me are grand, big, spacious. I slouch on a clear chair and look at grand ceilings that could scrape the sky, they are so high that if i jumped with all my strength I could not touch them. Grand plants with beige stems bathe in the golden sunlight, they have been working hard as they have so many thick emerald leaves, if i tried to count them it would take days. 1, 2, 3, 4. A white shelf holds many elderly teacups they are white and painted with small flowers, they sit silently, until i walk too heavily and they rattle like they are annoyed that I have woken them. The light above me could be the stigma of a flower in bloom, although it scarcely holds light. It is outshined by the window behind me. It is big so you can walk through it with ease into the welcoming landscape of green mountains and the blue ocean. My house is quiet except the happy humming and whirring of the clear coffee pot and the grey kettle, warm steam spills into the atmosphere heating up the cold cold air. Occasionally, a small white lion, with deep sky blue eyes will jump on my table. Fur seems to radiate off him, they climb up my nose and make me sneeze. He putters around knocking about my organized things, pushing the off the table, they BANG as they hit the ground, the echo travels. He looks at me as if to say "art is messy".