Another Oh Dad moment
Dad,So Hillie showed up at my door. 3:00 of a morning. Best time to drive here from the far west (Santa Monica). That’s what she was talking about as I answered the door in my boxers, pulled on backward half still asleep. You came to crow about discovering the joys of driving L.A. deep in the night?! I asked. No no. She settled into my half-sunken couch (I need a new one as soon as I can muster the money and effort to shop for one—hint, hint). Hillie’s hair was scrambled, long loose whisps raining off the unstuck mass of gold, blond gorgeousness. In distress Hillie achieved a goddess look. I stared. She talked. Love. What is it? Why does it hurt? My answer: I dunno. Never ask a poet to extemporize on subjects he/she would need to ponder with pen or keyboard in hand and head drilled into vocabular ranks. So I hugged her. Tears flowed. From both of us. And you can too easily guess the rest. By morning, drinking freshly french-pressed coffee, we shared a long dunno minute. Where am I going, Dad? How about a dose of paternal input?G
Ah, Gabe-yThere is only one expression that captures the moment, yours and mine, an expression that, like its language origin, stretches across a continent and drags thelong arms of time with it. And that expression is:OY VEH! ! ! ! ! ! !Just when one thinks that things can’t get much worse, more bizarre and more coincidental—even attributable to genetic coding and inherited genetic expression—well, things did get a little worse. I say little because the enormity of things just reduces the ratio, good to bad, healthy to psychotic, beautiful to....Well, I have to come out with it.No I can’t.Yes, I must. So I can.Brian Foreskin does indeed have his foreskin.There. I said it and need say no more.I’ve moved into paint. Oils of course. With paint you can have edge and surface. All the years I traveled and did museums with Narcisse never quite brought my eye to the deep reality of painting. (Whatever that means!) I am like a fourteen year old discovering a set of qualia totally knew to me.Is this related to Mr. Foreskin?Only insofar as it has condemned me to a new medium, a new way to reduce my visual sense of myself and the world to something I can handle, not control but actively submit to and then jump off the page. Canvas, because that is where painters begin.Meanwhile Celine has met the man she says she intends to marry. A German neurology resident. They met at a global initiative rally. He doesn’t look particularly Aryan—he’s short, dark-haired and laughs a lot. Her description not mine.And, no sooner had Mr. F departed then the ghost of Garry-double-R kicked me in the back and left me limping with a sharp pain in my right thigh. As the saying goes: there is no rest for the wicked. Now, as I think on it, the wicked seem to ensure rest and ease and pleasure. It’s the good who suffer—guilt, caution, fear, inhibition.Enough. I need a drink!Dizzy Dave