from AN ADVANCED COURSE IN BEING LOST
In the upper corner you can see that Kandinsky has painted the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Keep in mind that Kandinsky did not see the end of the world as a bad thing. Destruction was meant to lead to the way to a renewed spiritual life. To utopia. Remember that, back when Kandinsky was painting, it was still possible to believe that something might be left of the world.
My elderly father took a chainsaw to the cemetery and cut down 2 trees planted in the honor of a local man, husband, father, lawyer. 2 purple beech trees, good-sized, complete with marker stones, in loving memory. Dad felt the trees spoiled his view of his favorite oak as he drove down the dirt road. I’ve always struggled to explain exactly what is wrong with my father. He either doesn’t understand other people’s feelings or he doesn’t care. Also, he cannot count to 1. Can you think of anyone else who habitually speaks of himself in the 1st person plural? OK, Nixon. A grieving widow, plus 3 sons -- but that is exactly the math Dad can’t do. He’s harassed that grieving widow for years. I always thought the day Dad axed those trees would be his day of reckoning. Guess not. Allow me to employ here my father’s favorite phrase: Jesus Fucking Christ. What magic it is to be a rich old bully!
A persistent and abiding wish: to write something without somebody there. To hand it to you later and be able to honestly say, Here. This is from nobody.
In the upper corner you can see that Kandinsky has painted the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Keep in mind that Kandinsky did not see the end of the world as a bad thing. Destruction was meant to lead to the way to a renewed spiritual life. To utopia. Remember that, back when Kandinsky was painting, it was still possible to believe that something might be left of the world.
My elderly father took a chainsaw to the cemetery and cut down 2 trees planted in the honor of a local man, husband, father, lawyer. 2 purple beech trees, good-sized, complete with marker stones, in loving memory. Dad felt the trees spoiled his view of his favorite oak as he drove down the dirt road. I’ve always struggled to explain exactly what is wrong with my father. He either doesn’t understand other people’s feelings or he doesn’t care. Also, he cannot count to 1. Can you think of anyone else who habitually speaks of himself in the 1st person plural? OK, Nixon. A grieving widow, plus 3 sons -- but that is exactly the math Dad can’t do. He’s harassed that grieving widow for years. I always thought the day Dad axed those trees would be his day of reckoning. Guess not. Allow me to employ here my father’s favorite phrase: Jesus Fucking Christ. What magic it is to be a rich old bully!
A persistent and abiding wish: to write something without somebody there. To hand it to you later and be able to honestly say, Here. This is from nobody.
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