—April 30, 2016
Colonel Richthosen sucking sauce off ribs worries that the condor’s blue shadow is on his ceiling again, snippets of morphine broken on the floor with the dead carpenter’s bare light bulb showing images of luftwaffe plucking from the firestorm the very lungs of the children of Guernica— then, of course, Picasso in gaslight smuggling gold for the Germans. Paint ain’t costly, Ma, is it? One potato, two potato, three… Ma? Xi’s homage to Mao is an eccentricity! Ma? The shadows of the camels on the mud wall suggested sea monsters to my daughter— James Baldwin telling her this is a certain predictor of a future violence. He was seen eating soiled carrots in Provence. (The smoke of gernika leaving his very precise ears.) Suddenly in the overview, a red ceiling fan and a pig reading a catalog reminds my daughter of the polar bear eating a vanilla ice cream cone on a slowly watched train. The bear is a wax effigy with a spasmodic inner radiance, its stained ass is like cubes of ice in a glass of scotch. Richthosen sipping there! It is of course tragic that my daughter and I have spoken twice in five months. The giant Virgin in Piero’s scarlet cassock, wings spread, balancing a bowl of grapes on her head. In Rimini, they think nothing of noble solids of geometry detailing a woman who squats to pee … a fair-skinned boy, Piero remarked, is leading the darkness down the long hall, all four hands also very white and small. Piero saying it is something I can never forgive my father for having done. Something he shouldn’t have, not to his own son. Then there is a detail that is missing… one potato, two potato, Ma.