No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red), 1951

I am bedbound, febrile, and bored.

What do I spy with my little eye? There's nothing like playing this group game as a solitary endeavor. Oh, and as an adult!

This bedroom is an homage to Rothko. I have had six of his prints framed -- or hinted wildly to have some as Christmas and birthday gifts. It's not hard to imagine them as they are actually sized -- monoliths, huge.* There is one that might overwhelm me. I know it would overwhelm me. That is the print to the left of the closet door that draws my brain out through my eyes when I pass the 100.6 mark.

The print, not the closet door.

That sucks out my brain, that is.

I have problems cleanly coordinating antecedents. You probably had not noticed. Now you, Bard the Bowman to my circling, fire-breathing Smaug, know where I am without encrusted jewels, where I am bare!

Ar! Parse *that*, will you! I am the Anti-Parsed.

Anyway, the No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red), unbidden, swims and shimmers to the left of my closet door; The colors, they percolate.

It bothers me sometimes that Rothko was such a coward.

*To say they are "monolithic," though, is to do violence to Rothko's intent. They are not celebrations of form::color but rather pools of essential emotion. The blocks of color are not necessarily substantial, and that shows, mostly. At least while you honor his murmure - his bruit -- his something primordial and elemental.

I mean lookit! That, over there? Is that something akin to old cold lime jello set on the edge of a rectangular roma tomato red rough platter, earthenware's recipe of adobe (or, says Ceramic Man: marl clay and red clay and sand, the mix an evident 40:40:20)?