I do remember that it was he who pushed the statue over so that we could get the picture. That was right before we were escorted out of the museum. As I remember, though, the show they had up wasn't anything we were truly interested in anyway. We were in shorts, but we decided to eat at a famous steak house that was nearby. I can't remember the name, but the doorman was uncertain about letting us in. He asked us to wait a minute and went inside to speak to someone. It was early and the restaurant was almost empty. They sat us at a table in the back where no one could see us. The place was full of Peter Max paintings. . . I think it was Max. I'm texting Q right now and he can't remember. I do remember the steaks and asparagus and potatoes, though. Crazy good and crazy expensive.
Of course, I'm lying about the statue. You've been. You've seen it.
This one is surely his. I am positive this is the one for which he borrowed my camera. It is sad that Q lived half his life in the city and didn't take any photos. He travelled the world as a carinal barker and never took a camera. All of that is lost like our memory of who in the fuck's paintings were in that restaurant. But I'll bet somewhere I'll have a picture of it. Somewhere. God knows where.
Possession is nine tenths of the law. I've heard that. I wonder if it is true? I wish somebody would ask Trump at a press conference. I'd love to hear the answer. It would be pure pop poetry. He is quickly becoming my literary hero. Oral literature, not the shit you write in books. Pre-writing. Pre-coherence. Limited vocabulary, nothing that challenges you. Folk wisdom. He makes me believe in disbelief. Forest Trump.
What was it that Hunter Thompson said? It never got weird enough for him. Ha! He should be here now.
In beginning is my end...
ReplyDeleteHome is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a life burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one many only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for evening under lamplight
(the evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
T.S. Eliot, East Coker
Four Quartets
Hope you Holy Saturday has a good feel - the sense of the renewal season.
ReplyDelete"but a life burning in every moment"
Just wanted to isolate that. I love it.
Old men. . . what are you trying to say? I burn with the old passion and flame. As Buk said, it matters how well you walk through the fire.
ReplyDelete:)