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Oil on Canvas | 18" x 24" | 93K download

We have four troublesome coconut trees in our tiny backyard. They have a penchant for off-loading wizened old coconuts in the dead of the night. These philosophical fruits make a terrific bang when they land, often on a tin roof, jolting us out of slumber and reminding us of the day Bush bombed Baghdad.

We try to distribute as many coconuts as possible - amongst friends, relatives and the occasional stranger. But they keep piling up, like unwanted old people in shabby outhouses. Once in a while we crack open a couple or more, shaking beforehand to ascertain if it still contains fluid. The "dead" ones are rejected, and they die further, shrivelling beyond recognition. The "wet" ones are de-husked. The last traces of fibre are ripped away and they turn as bald as nude. When the shell is cracked, a dark zig-zag quickly spreads across its mid-riff. The water, like sweet memory dimming, gurgles out in fits and starts.

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