Eva Azenaro Acero
THE OWLS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM
here is a scenario. it is 1991 and you are sporting short dark hair and paint-splattered jeans. you are
curled up on a couch and you are watching 51,201 people in the form of 71 townspeople stare
meaningfully at each other across specks of light (red rooms zigzags wide eyes soap opera music
hold on tight). an fbi agent is smiling at the camera. you are smiling back.
(this is how i imagine it, anyways. this is how i imagine many things concerning you.)
(let’s try again.)
it is 2014 and i am hiding under my desk. i am holding a television in my hand and i am watching a smiling man tell me meaningful things while a log cabin burns behind him.
(metaphorically, of course.)
i am watching him but i am also beside you and we are sharing potato chips made from dangerous
legal chemicals and we are laughing at how whittling is common in a town where a yellow light still
means slow down, not go faster.
there are so many bodies and so few personalities hold on to my hand through these telephone
lines. whisper your suspicions into my tired ear (and i will whisper: my arms are bending back! back! back!)
(how on earth did people ever see this?)
i am suspended in a timeless double mountain and you are floating in the thin air some ten feet
away. (fire walk with me don’t let me slow my pace.) i am burning but my lungs are frozen in my
chest. this must be what art feels like.
here is a scenario. it is 1991 and you are sporting short dark hair and paint-splattered jeans. you are
curled up on a couch and you are watching 51,201 people in the form of 71 townspeople stare
meaningfully at each other across specks of light (red rooms zigzags wide eyes soap opera music
hold on tight). an fbi agent is smiling at the camera. you are smiling back.
(this is how i imagine it, anyways. this is how i imagine many things concerning you.)
(let’s try again.)
it is 2014 and i am hiding under my desk. i am holding a television in my hand and i am watching a smiling man tell me meaningful things while a log cabin burns behind him.
(metaphorically, of course.)
i am watching him but i am also beside you and we are sharing potato chips made from dangerous
legal chemicals and we are laughing at how whittling is common in a town where a yellow light still
means slow down, not go faster.
there are so many bodies and so few personalities hold on to my hand through these telephone
lines. whisper your suspicions into my tired ear (and i will whisper: my arms are bending back! back! back!)
(how on earth did people ever see this?)
i am suspended in a timeless double mountain and you are floating in the thin air some ten feet
away. (fire walk with me don’t let me slow my pace.) i am burning but my lungs are frozen in my
chest. this must be what art feels like.
Eva Azenaro Acero is an illustrator, writer, and ardent feminist based in Chicago; utilizing a variety of mediums and inspirations, her work explores the unusual and obscure, often at equally odd hours.
