I have fears about how words sound. Too simple. Too dull. Too slow. Too habitual. When is the magical time of words going to dawn? A revolution of alphabets? The marching of letters?
I live in an inverted future; really my past.
I was broke, lonesome and my shoes were full of blood as I walked the cold streets of Paris. I walked miles and miles each day in order to save a few coins in order to gain entrance into another museum. To see masterpiece upon masterpiece until I thought no more tears could run down my face. No more pure joy could be transmitted into me without my becoming two people, there, then and permanently, to boot. It was a re-birth in the midst of one more light going out.
A trick to save money at the museums: go to the gift shop and look at the postcards of the collection. If there is a painting that you have to see live, well then you pay. If not you might buy a p.c. or two still coming out ahead from the admission price. Often the equivalent of a rewarding beer in a smoky and warm cafe nearby.
It's all about realizing that money and how it's saved and how it's spent is a very fluid motion. It must always be moving in order for more to come along. Logic that is.
Anyways, one of my days I arrived at the Musee de Picasso. I was enjoying it very much. Learning about and seeing a lot of his work in one place at one time. It wasn't until I came face to face with the painting "Man Eating an Ice Cream Cone" that I realized how very playful the masters, the true masters, the geniuses, truly are. Leading us along, showing us the way, or a way, and the power of their shared visions pulling us along like back-drafting a semi in a V.W. bus across the praries. Poetry. Belief. Harmony.
Some works are very much like a theatrical wink given so that nobody misses the irony or humour of the situation. What moxy! What chutzpah! What balls! Bravo! I cry out again Bravo!
For in all things I see 'it' in a flash. I also see the cheap imitations in a flash, a heartbeat. Transported to the heaven inspired heights and just as suddenly to fall to the depths of bad taste, mainfested misguided inspiration. (Bullocks!)
God, the mad deaf Ludwig knew it.
Sweet, beatitudinal Blake knew it.
Montreal's own Mordecai Richler knew it.
There is a long and worthy list of those that exalted in it.
I'll tell ya a secret. It could have only come from one thing, simply: LOVE.