Sometimes I think of the sweetest, kindest waters to the face's corners as they meet, say, ancient, worked, twirled, and twisted, twined -- for God, karma, and ant forefoot's sake, all -- to become in one non-magical wash, The Shade.
If I take a few days, it's nice not to have to explain all that.
When Joe Cocker died, I'm sure you barely recall my visceral cry, meaning: "Damn it, I never got to writhe with him and do the inexplicable struggle to turn out the light and impart only his meaning to the rocking mic, his roll to the music," and so it was this, from the gut, lazy,
no. no. no!
that really crept out and was over.
I sat and stared at the NYTimes Breaking News Alert about the death of Günter Grass, possibly thinking from, of, and in my favorite depth: nothing.
I sat and stared at the NYTimes Breaking News Alert about the death of Günter Grass, possibly thinking from, of, and in my favorite depth: nothing.
|BREAKING NEWS ALERT
|
|
| No, I'm thinking of us, huddled in a field. |
Me, on an L-shaped, huge porch in the Philippines, needing a place in all that hugeness -- rice paddies, stepped-mountains, purple skies, incoming afternoon rains, my house -- to disappear.
[Oh, I violate all sorts of things by offering you a tripartite .pdf access... but HERE ]
Because all that mattered were the stories of progeniture, passed through asylums
and carnies,
hot potatoes and grandmothers.
All that mattered was:
The Wide Skirt
uploaded to YouTube by KineticProse
Less of a creep-out-and-gone than not boogying down-and-out with Joe Cocker?
That Rothko may have painted for Grass.
As divulged by Bunny about a yellow-block piece adroitly tied to the ripping open of Germany's past...
I had my moments, my many moments, of weakness, these past few days, none of which can I slough upon Günter Grass, but it did bring half a grin and enough of something to the other side of my rough and discolored face, longing for wind and water to remember what most of us do.
And it is not this weaker of the color-blocks, no matter how much more Bunny might have reprieved a nation by penning a title to the back, bringing the faraway cost to a less chilly 41 million, and a more imaginable, alterable brilliance to their own rooms.
 | ||
| "Sotheby’s Offering a Rothko Once Owned by Bunny Mellon" |
|
© 2015 L. Ryan
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