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"A friend asked yesterday if this blog is addressed to anyone in particular? I said yes– it’s a love letter to someone I haven’t met yet."
CarrollBlog 3.1
"Surprising and embarrassing things pass through dogs. I have a friend who recounted--in excruciating detail-- the grief he suffered when a missing formal dress sock presented its toe dangling from the end of his Irish Setter's alimentary canal. The dog began fretting and the owner resolved to gently remove the sock, which was made out of a nylon material that had considerable stretch to it. Only after he retrieved and bagged the sock did he realize that his ministration was within view of every busybody in the neighborhood. The same poor Setter was also prone to ingesting his mistress' panties, and proved adept at unhinging all manner of undergarments from the laundry hamper. Resigned, the woman took to buying cheap, flimsy underwear that she hoped would slide through the Setter without incident. When the dog finally required surgery to resolve its gastronomic misadventures, a brassiere and a pair of pantyhose were found amid assorted socks and underwear inside the animal."
from WALLY'S WORLD by Marsha Boulton
CarrollBlog 2.29
Across the street is a black door. Nothing is written on it but everyone in the neighborhood knows what's behind the door. One of those places that's usually spoken of in whispers, followed by tight mouths and head shaking. The door never opens or closes during the day and really only late at night does anyone go in or out of there. A few times a year usually around early dawn there are people standing outside yelling at each other or crying or fighting or punching it out... It depends. Strange looking people as a rule-- sad, weird, sometimes seriously scary. Now and then the police are called. I have never been inside this place but for years have heard stories about what goes on in there. I'm sure many of them are apocryphal but just from the scenes I've witnessed in front, I have a feeling some very dark things go on inside what is reputed to be one of Vienna's more notorious sex clubs. Today the weather here was again very beautiful-- warm, sun blazing, some people even walking around in t-shirts. At midday I looked out the window and standing directly in front of the black door was a group of very young children obviously on a class trip somewhere. For some reason the teacher made them stand there a long time. Naturally the kids began to get fidgety and bored. Some of the more naughty ones started banging with their little fists on the black door; one even kicked it loud enough for me to hear. Grinning, I wondered if anyone was inside the club then. If so, did they think one of last night's customers had returned, obviously angry or disgruntled enough to be kicking the door. How surprised they would have been if they'd opened it, expecting some sort of creep, or scene or bad news, but instead were faced with fifteen little happy wiseguys.
CarrollBlog 2.28
When writing OUTSIDE THE DOG MUSEUM, a novel about architecture, I spoke with several well known architects about how they worked. One of them, a Pritzker Prize winner, said he always goes to the location where a building will be erected and literally talks to the space. In fact he had several conversations with it, always returning there on different days, different times of the day and weather(s). He asked questions like what do *you* want here? What will you be most comfortable with? If you, empty space, were to make this building what would yours look like? Of course the land never answered his questions, but by thinking 'out of the box' that way, the architect sometimes came up with different approaches and concepts that helped in his overall design. At the time I thought it was a cool albeit strange way of working, but later I realized that's often what you do when writing. You create a character and a story but somewhere along the way you give up making them do this and this and start asking this entirely fictional creation, "What do you *want* to do now?" Or "I don't know what you would do in this situation. Can you tell me?" Hopefully by that point in the work the character is so fleshed out, so concrete in both your mind and on the page that sometimes they do tell you what they want. In certain cases they even demand that this happen, in contrast to what you might be planning on them doing. I remember reading an interview with the novelist John Fowles where he said he knew he was writing something good when he began to fight with his characters about what they should do next.
CarrollBlog 2.27
"I made a peculiar prayer. It's a prayer that sometimes I say, one that is perhaps self-serving, but because I believe that God is not limited by time and space as we are, I believe perhaps he can influence the past even though it has already happened. So sometimes when I'm alone, especially at night, in the dark, and I begin to dwell on the suffering that people have probably experienced before their deaths, I ask God to retroactively relieve their pain, to be with them in body and mind, to numb their senses, to cool whatever flame licked at their eyes in their final moments."
James Lee Burke, BLACK CHERRY BLUES
CarrollBlog 2.26
Outside the aquarium they sit together squeezed onto two long benches. It is a brilliantly sunny spring day in February. There are seven of them, four men and three women, nine including the two women watching over them. Five of these people appear to have Down's Syndrome, judging by their similar faces. The other two are all strange herky jerky movements and facial expressions-- they smile then frown then smile again within seconds. They can't keep their hands off each other. They stroke each other's hair, try to steal a piece of sandwich or water bottle when it is brought to someone's lips, snoop in each other's backpacks... One of them turns to a guardian and says "The shark in there was *small*! I thought it would be BIG!" One of his companions says BIG several times in exactly the same way, very fast: BIGBIGBIGBIG. A few of them laugh at that. Then like a flock of birds flying in perfect choreography around the sky in the evening, all of them, all, turn their faces to the bright morning sun and eyes closed, grin.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SY3SJOqkWAg
CarrollBlog 2.25
RICHARD NOEL
by Harry Thomas
He said he'd be absent a week,
and when I asked him why,
he looked away from me.
A small boy, and very shy,
he never spoke in class,
except to tell us about,
say, bees or the Burgess Shale.
I couldn't figure him out.
Two or three minutes passed--
as much as I could stand.
Then: "There's a tumor on
my pituitary gland."
He hadn't slept well in years;
watched scientific shows.
The doctor to remove it
would enter up his nose...
To finish the long profile
his grade depended on,
the afternoon before
the surgery, alone,
he worked late in the library.
I saw him typing away.
On my desk were his ten pages
the first thing the next day.
Over the years I, too,
have had hard things to face.
But when did I once summon
such fortitude and grace?
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an excerpt from the diary of Sylvia Plath describing what happened the night she met Ted Hughes, her future husband:
"And then he kissed me bang smash on the mouth and ripped my hairband off, my lovely red hairband scarf which had weathered the sun and much love, and whose like I shall never again find, and my favorite silver earrings: hah, I shall keep, he barked. And when he kissed my neck I bit him long and hard on the cheek, and when we came out of the room, blood was running down his face."
CarrollBlog 2.24
www.stephenwiltshire.co.uk
CarrollBlog 2.23
http://youtube.com/watch?v=oPlfzFZGl0o
CarrollBlog 2.22
Walking along a small side street in an unfamiliar part of town. It's late, the street is pretty dark, no one's around. I pass a partially open door that leads down to a basement space. After a few steps forward, I realize what I've just seen and immediately Michael Jackson-moonwalk backwards. On the door is taped a small black and white sign that says "Tango Club. Meetings Tuesday and Wednesday nights at 8 pm." At the bottom of a short steep staircase is what appears to be a large room. Three couples are dancing-- whirling, dipping, tango'ing-- but there is no music. A man off to one side is giving sharp frequent instructions to them. None of the dancers look at him-- only at their partners. All of their faces are very serious-- intensely in the moment and what they are doing. The instructor finishes speaking and they continue moving. It's such a wonderful unexpected scene that I walk away before they stop or music starts playing, or anything else that would change this minute of magic I've witnessed.
---------------------
"Can you help me, Mr. Venasque?"
"I can teach you how to fly. That's the first step."
"What do you mean, fly? Really, like a bird?"
I almost heard him smile. "Birds don't fly, Mr. Easterling. They live. Part of their way of living is to travel off the ground. But ask a bird how he does that and he'll look at you funny. The same when someone asks you how to walk. Put one foot in front of the other. Sure, that's the mechanics of it, but how *do* you walk? Or find the right balance to ride a two-wheeler bike? You do it. You find it. I can teach you where it is in you."
CarrollBlog 2.21
Toodling along through our days, we forget how close to the edge we are. How the bad things, the deadly things, the I'm-never- going- away things lurk just outside the picture, all of our pictures. I think I've mentioned here before that in the building where I live is an "Interventionstelle," a place where battered women can go and get help. Too often over the years I've seen them come and go, looking scared or exhausted, whipped or bewildered as they enter the place. Today as I was putting a key in the front door of the building, someone came up fast behind me so close that I could hear them breathing hard and hoarse, like they'd been running. Turning, I saw wild black hair and a face thick pink with makeup, kohl black eyes wide with fear. "Can I go in? Please, just let me in!" She growled, her voice at its end. Her face saying please please-- help me out here. I pushed open the door and she ran by me, up the stairs to the first floor where the intervention office is. She pressed the doorbell three four five times. While the locks inside slid open she shouted "Open up. Please! Hurry!"
CarrollBlog 2.20
A good photograph is knowing where to stand.
Ansel Adams
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A poet is, before anything else, a person passionately in love with language.
WH Auden
________________
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.
Anais Nin
CarrollBlog 2.19
from the "I bet you didn't know" Department:
"Most people will die in bed, but of the group that don't, the majority will die sitting on the lavatory. This is because there are some terminal events, such as an enormous heart attack or clot on the lung, where the bodily sensation is as if you want to defecate."
from an article in THE GUARDIAN about what happens to us after we die
http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/wellbeing/story/0,,2256455,00.html
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http://youtube.com/watch?v=dsU3B0W3TMs
CarrollBlog 2.18
Where Else Can You Go
by Jim Daniels
to get those wonderful T-shirts
with the pocket for your smokes
the pocket for your smokes?
In all colors all sizes
blue and dark blue and light blue
and black and brown green and red
light brown dark red all colors.
Where else can you go
for the blue light the blue light
the blue light specials?
You know what I'm talking about
that place that savings place
you've been there
wandering the aisles dazed.
You have to be in the right mood
to go in. you have to be slow
and happy and sad.
I am buying T-shirts and basketball shoes
I am buying a Hula Hoop and a can of oil
I am buying a travel alarm and an eraser
in the shape of Mr. T's head--
oh, Mr. T where are you now?
Good cheap stuff, don't you love it
cheeseballs and vitamins
a bag of cement a light-up fish
a lightbulb with three speeds
a lightbulb that lasts forever.
It's cotton candy on my tongue--
it disappears yet is so sweet
yet is so sickening.
Why did I come here, what did I really need?
I am lonely and it is raining.
I am tired of flossing.
I want to wander these cluttered aisles
till what brought me here
slides off into shoe boxes and dish drainers
into stale bags of caramel corn
and circus peanuts, into disposable lighters
and sugar-free gum. I want to be emptied
emptied of it all, I want to pass through
the checkout counter past the security guard
having mumbled all my sins to the plastic dolls.
I want to be purified by the smells of ammonia
and Colorforms, the taste of junk America
the sweet sweet blues--I hope I can afford it.
CarrollBlog 2.17
We lose it-- it disappears, evaporates. The edge, the courage, the black madness and abandon of the young. The dazzle of living one hundred percent in the moment. It goes away, leaks out of us like water through cracks. Cracks that come from growing older. They start when you buy whole life insurance policies and mortgages, or hear the results of a not-so-good physical check-up. They start when there's a need rather than a desire for warm baths. Safety over spontaneity, comfort over commotion. Part of him hated it. Not the growing older, but becoming tame, upstanding, predictable, half-hearted, skeptical about too much.
CarrollBlog 2.15
A friend was at an ATM machine, withdrawing money. As the cash emerged, a hand suddenly swooped in from the side and made to snatch the loot before she did. Outraged, the woman slapped this thieving hand away and shouted "Don't touch that!" The hand swooped in again, but this time at a weird wrong angle. The woman hit it away again, this time much harder. Turning, she saw a man standing inches from her. He had a long white cane in one hand and was obviously blind, groping with his free hand for whatever. Upset and embarrassed the woman said, "This is a Bankomat (ATM) machine! You've bumped into a Bankomat machine!" The blind man apologized. But then brusquely shoving the woman out of his way, he kept on going.
--------------------------------
When it comes to love, there are a million theories to explain it. But when it comes to love stories, things are simpler. A love story can never be about full possession. The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims - these are lucky eventualities, but they aren't love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name.
We value love not because it's stronger than death, but because it's weaker. Say what you want about love: death will finish it. You will not go on loving in the grave, not in any physical way that will at all resemble love as we know it on earth. The perishable nature of love is what gives love its profound importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn't hit us the way it does.
Jeffrey Eugenides
CarrollBlog 2.14
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
ee cummings
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It was real... it was magic
It was calm... it was savage.
It was cool as a breeze
It was warm to the touch.
It was never enough
It was always too much.
It did all the things love does--
That's how I knew
It was.
from the song "It Was" by Chely Wright
CarrollBlog 2.13
"Another time they might have had a rewarding relationship. But there are people we meet in life that miss being important to us by inches, days, or heartbeats. Another place or time or emotional frame of mind and we would willingly fall into their arms; gladly take up their challenge or invitation. But as it is, we encounter them when we are discontent or content but they are not. Whatever serious chemistry might have been possible if, isn't."
--------------------------------------
interesting idea-- read books on your email/ Blackberry/ iPhone, etc
www.dailylit.com
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JJ Abrams gives a TED speech:
http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/205
CarrollBlog 2.12
Here's one to think about this week: Who gave you your first Valentine card? Who was the first person you ever gave one to? Who was the last? Did you ever give one to the most important person in your life? If not, why? For the last few days I've been trying unsuccessfully to remember the name of the girl in 2nd grade I gave my first Valentine to. She couldn't have cared less. She was pretty. She was popular. Every boy in our class probably gave her one. What I remember most vividly was a day or two later she gave me a card. But the way she did it was classic: we bumped into each other at a drinking fountain in the hall. Every time I saw this girl my heart went flying over the moon, as only a 2nd grade heart in love can do. But she was one of the queens of the school and all the boys pined for her. As she bent over to drink, she silently stuck her arm out towards me. In her hand was a small envelope. My soul sang, anticipating what was inside that white square of paper *from her*. Still without a word, she walked away without looking back after I took it. Trembling, I opened the envelope. Inside was a card with a big color illustration of Pluto the cartoon dog on it and a caption below that said something dumb and noncommital like "Hope ya have a grrrrrreat Valentine's Day" Only that. She didn't even sign her name or, dream of dream, write lots of "O's" and "X's" to signify hundreds of hugs and kisses. Nothing.
--------------------------------
http://youtube.com/watch?v=tzq3srbYEUY
CarrollBlog 2.11
Someone I cared for
by Cid Corman
Someone I cared for
put it to me: Who
do you think you are?
I went down the list
of all the many
possibilities
carefully-- did it
twice-- but couldn't find
a plausible one.
That was when I knew
for the first time who
in fact I wasn't.
CarrollBlog 2.9
In recent years, the post office has shifted from putting stamps on letters to machine made black and white labels. The difference didn't strike me until the other day when standing on line at the post office. I saw a person at the counter insist that stamps be put on her letters and not labels. The postal worker was obviously annoyed by the request but did it. Opening a large accordion file, they took out an array of brightly colored decorative stamps. Mauve, cerise, petroleum blue, parrot green... Just the colors alone were a revelation. You forget how pretty and sometimes memorable postage stamps can be; a kind of visual gift up there in the right corner of an envelope. In many ways large and small, the world has gone from color to black and white/homogenous in a not so nice, deadening way. It's important to be reminded again and again that it doesn't have to be so in every case. Even with something as banal as a mailed letter.
CarrollBlog 2.8
"He loved stepping into the world every day."
Ron Carlson
"If they can make penicillin out of moldy bread, they can sure make something out of you."
"It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out, it's the pebble in your shoe."
both from Muhammad Ali
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Don't always follow the crowd, because nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded."
"Never give up, because it ain't over 'til it's over."
all aphorisms from Yogi Berra
Once in an Italian restaurant, Berra was asked if he wanted his pizza cut into four or eight pieces. "Four," he said. "I don't think I can eat eight."
CarrollBlog 2.7
She appeared again today and this time I felt like going over to her and saying leave-- just go away and let him have this space, this place, this hour in his day when he can be alone to work on something obviously important to him without you here to make him feel young and silly. The boy started coming to the gym a few weeks ago. I usually go midmorning and at that time the place is used by a few regular hardcore lifters and bodybuilders, some retirees on the treadmills, and a very tattooed woman who seems to be there all the time looking ripped and ferocious. So it was surprising to see this boy-- 11? 12?-- show up one morning to work out. My first thought was 'Shouldn't he be in school?' He's thin as a coat hanger and reminds me of my grandmother's line, "he's so skinny that he has to run around in the shower to get wet." But the kid is very serious about working out. The first few times I saw him, he was with one of the men who runs the place and was being given detailed instructions about how to use the equipment. He did exactly as he was instructed and the look on his face is always serious and dedicated. And then one day his mother started showing up. I assume it's his mother or some member of the family. She walked into the gym in street clothes and went right over to the boy. His eyes widened and his shoulders sank. She laughed, touched both arms and even tried to hug him but he pulled away. After a few minutes she rubbed his head and left. I think every one of us in the place looked away to spare the boy any more embarrassment. All right-- so he forgot something or she had to tell him something important. Once. It was okay for her to show up there once. But now she comes all the time. Today she had a camera and took photographs of the boy in his workout gear. When I was teaching, so many times I told the parents of my students, particularly the troubled ones or those who were struggling, give them a lot of room. Stay out of their space--physically and psychically-- as much as you can now. If you love them, give them space-- to grow, to figure out who they are and what direction they want to choose. Perhaps the worst part is this mother is coming here because she loves her son but obviously has no idea what a trespasser she is in so many important ways.
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plot description of the recent American documentary film, HELL HOUSE:
Hell Houses are a distinctly American phenomenon which began in 1990 just outside of Dallas, at the Trinity Assembly of God Church. The original Hell House was conceived as a modern-day fire-and-brimstone sermon. Today, this religious ceremony of sorts is replete with actors, extensive lighting equipment and full audio-visual tech crews. Inside the Hell House, tour guides dressed as demons take visitors from room to room to view depictions of school massacres, date rape, AIDS-related deaths, fatal drunk driving crashes, and botched abortions. Hell Houses have now spread to hundreds of churches worldwide. With full access to the behind-the-scenes action, HELL HOUSE follows the process from the first script meeting until the last of the 10,000 visitors passes through the Hell House doors. The movie gives a verite window into the whole process of creating this over-the-top sermon, while showing an intimate portrait of the people who fervently believe its message.
CarrollBlog 2.6
Almost every day for years I've passed the blind woman on her way to work. In her right hand she holds a long white cane that she taps in front of her to sort the familiar geography of the sidewalk she must know so well after having walked it a thousand thousand times. I always give her a wide berth because she taps the stick in a continuous sweeping 180 degree semi-circle in front of her-- left/middle/right/middle/left... This morning walking along, lost in thought, I heard a loud clunk. Looking up, I saw that she had walked straight into a large metal pillar that stands in front of a department store. Grinning, she stepped back, readjusted, and went on her way. But I stood there sort of shocked. I was thinking how could that be? She's covered this route so often that she must know every half-inch of it. She must also be ten times more careful walking anywhere than a sighted person. But then it dawned on me that perhaps she was daydreaming too. Thinking about something far more interesting than just walking down the street, she went straight into that pillar. I did the same thing a few months back-- broad daylight, daydreaming about something compelling, BONG-- straight into a street sign. No difference at all.
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cool website:
www.rulesofthumb.org
CarrollBlog 2.5
All That Is Glorious Around Us
by Barbara Crooker
(title of an exhibit on The Hudson River School)
is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled
overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day
of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,
160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,
sitting in a cafe warmed by the steam
from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,
watching the red and gold leaves race down the street,
confetti from autumn's bright parade. And I think
of how my mother struggles to breathe, how few good days
she has now, how we never think about the glories
of breath, oxygen cascading down our throats to the lungs,
simple as the journey of water over a rock. It is the nature
of stone / to be satisfied / writes Mary Oliver, It is the nature
of water / to want to be somewhere else, rushing down
a rocky tor or high escarpment, the panoramic landscape
boundless behind it. But everything glorious is around
us already: black and blue graffiti shining in the rain's
bright glaze, the small rainbows of oil on the pavement,
where the last car to park has left its mark on the glistening
street, this radiant world.
CarrollBlog 2.4
from the website www.nancybuttons.com
Always keep clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark
Be yourself--it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it
Don't take life seriously--it isn't permanent
If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten
If you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance
Never try to teach a pig to sing. It only wastes your time and annoys the pig.
Never wear a hat that has more character than you do
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent
Practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty
Yield to temptation--it may not pass your way again
You can fly, but that cocoon has to go
One must have the courage of one's peculiarities
Never do anything you wouldn't want to have to explain to the paramedics
Speak the truth even if your voice trembles
The Two Rules 1) Don't tell people everything you know
No sympathy for self-inflicted wounds
A professional writer is an amateur writer who didn't quit
Learn from everyone, follow no one, watch for patterns, and work like hell
Accept that your life will never be normal and go from there
Fail again. Fail better.
Knock hard. Life is deaf.
CarrollBlog 2.3
Warming Her Pearls
by Carol Ann Duffy
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of
her,
resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head...Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does...And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.
CarrollBlog 2.2
In the park across the street a war is going on. The war of the wall. One large wall of the basketball court has been given to local graffiti artists. For a long time it was a chaotic mess of squiggles and badly drawn swirly initials-- the kind of dumb doodles that gives good graffiti a bad name because it's so meaningless and sloppy. But recently something interesting has been going on and I wonder if it will continue. A few weeks ago I saw a guy in a hoodie sweatshirt at work painting the wall one afternoon. At his feet were many cans of spray paint and although he had only just begun, it was clear his work was accomplished. Later I went to the park specifically to see what his finished product looked like. It was terrific-- beautifully drawn, imaginative, very much like the work of the artist Kenny Scharf. But in two days it was gone--completely covered over by a mass of very badly painted glop-- black or phosphorescent orange and green stick drawings, letters, and other crap that looked like a bunch of ten year old 'Attention Deficit Disorder' kids had eaten too much sugar and then attacked the wall with paint. It was sad because
what they'd erased with their junk was the real thing-- an artist at work. A few days later I grinned when I saw that familiar guy in a hoodie with the many cans of paint at his feet, back working on the wall. This time what he did there was completely different but just as good. I wanted to go over and compliment him, say good for you, man. But I was too shy and didn't. Instead I just stood well back and watched him work. He was fast and adept. He knew exactly what he was doing and the only time he stopped painting was when he'd take a few steps back, look at what he'd done, and then return to work. But once again the nasties rolled in afterwards and completely defaced this new work. I wondered what he thought when he saw it. All those hours put in, coming up with something special and very much his own. His gift to the world, erased by the barbarian horde. This morning early while walking the dog in the park my heart lifted when in the early light, I saw he'd returned and covered the wall yet again with his artistry. It reminded me of that Bruce Cockburn song lyric, "You've got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."
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http://youtube.com/watch?v=jwMj3PJDxuo