And All The Women Had Plugs In The Back Of Their Heads

How can anyone survive their first painting if it’s called “The Dead Man”? Isn’t that a big red flag?

Full Stop.
You Have Said All You Ever Wanted To Say.
Thank You For Stopping By.

And there, flump, you are absolutely done. You no longer have to toil and beg and subject yourself to muses and jackasses (who look deceptively alike, unfortunately) and you can, you know, do, you know, whatever, like.

And all that.

Then, quite unexpectedly, my heart breaks at the sight of two Rothkos. Why? Why after all this time? Then, shocked, utterly shocked I’m gonna faint let me put my head between my knees, at this Calder mobile with it’s spheres wrapped in Pure Intimate, the color of a horoscope clipped and kept in a wallet for fun for one or two days, then left there forgotten for twenty more, then kept months as a very private test of faithfulness, then finally absolutely necessary to the proper functioning of the wallet:

Hello, talisman.
Hello Lucky Rabbit Foot.
Hello Ann Landers.
Speak to me again from your creased yellow self.


That’s the stuff around these orbs. And the mariners who might have found the information on them useful died about a thousand years ago, parched and sad. And you could jump the wire and take one, with tears streaming down your face, and crash it open, and, as the guards approach you confirm your suspicion: Calder’s Orbs Have Ducklings In Them.

Some of the canvases were perfectly flat. Suprisingly flat, considering pigment has dimensionality. You can coat somethings thicker than others, and you probably will. Go try it and come back here. That one in particular is so flat that when you begin to see depth changes you realize they’re the ones you’ve projected from your heart. Who asked my heart to come here? Who’s responsible?

But that play, oh, jesus. I read it in the best of all possible circumstances: on the corner of 14th and 5th waiting for Margaret to get out of her class at The New School. Just standing on that corner for 90 minutes, reading that play and yes, of course, absolutely no one noticed or cared.

It is great to be alive. I have read A Play on a corner in Manhatten after sleeping deeply on one of it’s buses and still not missing my stop. The Play is a shield, protecting me from harm. You may wish to molest me and destroy my opportunities, but you must come back another time. Today I am holding The Play.

This is what I can report:

  • It has a pretty good song in it.
  • By placing a parable at its end we are saved the sensation of having almost understood everything leading up to it. This parable is opaque enough to make anyone turn from Uncertain-But-Hip to Just-Plain-Furious.
  • And that’s a very good play.
  • It has women characters exclusively who are equal parts Tank Girl, Petticoat Junction, and all major and minor Austens. There is a hint of Jean Kirkpatrick in every character, always at the beginning of our acquaintance with her, Jeanny Genie, that Wicked Miss K who often visits me in my dreams and intimidates me into rephrasing questions for her again and again and again until she feels they are worthy of her answer.
  • But I could be projecting. It’s that kind of play.

Good for shielding. Prevents interference.



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