Curtain of Pink Death

"Hey, what's up with that curtain thing?" asked a fellow human being about our signature image on emails and posts. Curtain of Pink Death Productions is an umbrella d/b/a for our movie and screenplay work. And "curtain of pink death" was the sobriquet that referred to the nether parts of a mutual girlfriend of ours. But the image itself Eric found on the web, provenance unknown. Or maybe it appeared to him in a dream. Meditate on it long enough, and you will find yourself eternally marooned in a hallucinatory bardo in which mimicry passes for life.
A view of a generic biege-pink brick-shuttered McMansion seen through a window on a lightly stained recently curbed concrete street, with a curving sidewalk nobody ever walks on leading across a threadbare, newly re-landscaped lawn. The naked shivering tree, a brutalist marker for housing development existentialism. The pot of flowers, a lone bit of color, to the left of the front door, looking as though it were dropped off there by a realtor lady working on half commission. Blank-faced double-garage doors, hiding either a meth lab or a collection of never-ridden bicycles, des vélos de ville solides, conçus pour la rue.
And then, on this side of the belvedere, the curtain itself, draped and tied in a uterine way, suspended from a faux-brass rod from Home Depot, occluding washed-out, insipid, afternoon light from the biege-painted drywall of an unseen room. "What cannot be said," wrote Jim Harrison in his notebook, "will get wept."
In the bottom left corner, a digital date stamp in red: 2006 4 27. Of no significance, unless you remember April 27 was the day Kepler fixed upon as the date for the creation of the universe, in 4977 B.C., which would be 6,983 years before this snap was shot. Could the precise timing of the curtain of pink death photograph indicate the re-birth of the universe into a new, all-biege, all-homeostatic reality? Or was the date stamp merely an ironic comment on the detached, still-born suburban meringue in which our countrymen's lives have become irretrievably clotted? You decide.
To come: the CGI animated version of the image, with the curtain billowing in a hand-of-God wind, courtesy of Eric Saks.