#8 February 2009.
February 15, 2009.
Lac Ouareau, early morning.
What it says on the painting...
“Ok, you’ve said it, Move on.”
What it shows on the
painting...
It shows the words and in the red square, death is in
life; but, then, life is in death.
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February 18. 2009
Montreal, early morning.
Signs and symbols (those are the marks of meaning coming
and going, found and lost, kept or thrown away) in the evening air
(that’s the blots and stains, smudges and drips, and the years of my
age)…
Night, remembering thoughts this morning…
A few doors down a side street off the main drag, you hear
the sound and flash of the parade up there at the corner, each float
drowned out by the blaring of the next float coming. Yes, from this
hermitage in the middle of the noisy city you can see, know and show
what abides down here as the parade clatters on up at the end of the
street.
February 19, 2009.
Montreal, evening.
Drunk again—
Don’t blame the bottle, it’s you that drinks it... I presume that
people disapprove, but that is nothing compared to my own feeling of
the times passing away and the bottle taking away the mind and skills
to say what I must of what late age knows.
Yes, I said it (late
age)…whatever I have to give the world now is only that—what late age
knows and youth and maturity will learn. Must they learn now? Can they
learn now? Are these works I make now only stones pushed to the side
of a road anyway no longer travelled?
Well, no. what I live
and know and make of it does matter.
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#9 February 2009.February 15,
2009.
Lac Ouareau, night.
How much the hands have done, how much have they yet
to do. Left hand, right hand—row your boat together to the end. |
#10 February 2009.February 19,
2009.
Montreal, night.
The starry hand breaks through.
Always remember the red for life (and the Jupiter finger reaches
toward it). And putting in the red star gave the painting the
specificity of a true story… it broke the painting out of the abstract
into the real.
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#11 February 2009.
February 20, 2009.
Montreal, night.
What drives the guys crazy—the sperm always boiling to get
out—and the girls crazy with hunger for it in the full moon… and what
drives time crazy, with the need for the generations to go on, and on,
and on… We are each but a moment in all time gone and all to come.
to
next column► |
A
little later.
Working on #11 February, I heard, “It’s
philosophy is all painting ever taught me.” We make art for so many
reasons. Mine though so often I knew it not was always that.
What’s the lesson,
tell it true:
Withdraw the veil and you will know cock in cunt is the only way to
immortality
Yes, you are going to
die somehow, some time somewhere.
Life lives on.
Cum in cunt always
On.
A
little later later.
Looking at #8 February that says “OK you’ve
said it, move on,” yes, I’ve said it again.
Looking at the whole
wall of them—#s 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 February that is
in front of me as I work—you just do slowly build the wall that is the
mirror of… I can’t call it soul, but whatever that is, this is it.
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#12 February 2009.
February 22, 20099.
Montreal, late afternoon.
…Putting the thin
silver line of memory into the black advance of death…
Yes, I do wish to be
remembered beyond the lives of those who now know me—Gustav Holst’s
“Rejoice, ye dead, where’ere your spirits are, for yet your name is
bright”—only as a thin silver line across the black.
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