Do you recognize your neighbors, I wonder. Neighbors who I have known for months, years, decades are changing into a people I do not recognize. No, not merely the bandit masks that disguise faces, nor the isolated eye that shows fear or anger, even unto the strange attitude of the knotted brow, but that deeper…
Perhaps your school-desk was alike my school-desk covered edge-to-edge in sketches. The desk surface, as you know, is an almost perfect blank canvas, a clean slate, a tabula rasa*, of sorts, where knowledge acquired might be reflected eye to mind to hand, to nun who might correct wayward drawing knuckles with a smart, wood-ruler, snap,…
Self-Singing Rainbow People Recently, following nearly a year’s absence from television, I had the opportunity to witness one of those common flatteries, television commercials, vehicles to sell some frivolity by appealing to typical vanities, pride, lust, sloth, et cetera. You have seen them, I am sure, rainbow people, proud, self-selfing, posing by not posing, assuming…
This, below, the preamble to an old book of notes, chapters, really, 40 chapters that considered American history in entire, every art, every craft, every variation. The thing is cumbersome, not likely to be published in its present form, if at all. Yet, opening statements, because brief, would like sharing for the introduction of a…
I do, and I can’t stand it. So, friends,I have composed a book for your amusement, for your understanding, a book to tell the truth on those who lied to you, MODERN ART: A Critique in Rhyme Here, examined: the lives of the knuckle-headed artists, their splattered pictures, crooked statues, bumbled books, collapsing buildings, and…
Here we are at circus, you and me and all the others, facing each and every way in The Age of Absurdity. Rather alike some Swiftian satire, some Aesopian consequence, some Seussian phantasmagoria where all the world is upside down, facing sideways in slow-motion walking backwards into a psychedelic truth. Yet, who can say: This…
The song of the breeze of the morning in a field peopled with fragrant flowers is one of the many delights in having life. And the song of the breeze is, to those who pause to listen, the voice of eternal wisdom. Listening to the morning breeze is for me an almost daily occupation from…
Having these past forty years of life a desire to taste of pleasure and delight—and having tasted—I consider myself something of an expert on Beauty, on pleasure and delight. Alas, with humility I must confess a dilettante’s knowledge, only. Though, had there been a course of study or even a course of lectures on the…
