Francis Bacon

Some random thoughts I had last weekend when seeing the paintings in the Francis Bacon exhibit on its last day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The artists who move me are those who manifest my dreams, across time and space, before my conscious eyes.

It was the first time I'd seen his work in person:

1. You will always resist what will change you, but you are still inexorably drawn  
     to it.

2. Henrietta Moraes (1931 - 1998) - what was a girl like that doing with a
    Portuguese surname? I like the word "odalisque."

3. Intentional deformity, the psychological "elephant man."

4. His paintings look like postmodern roadkill, and that's not an insult.

5. Francis Bacon and Francis Bacon

6. Blue Men and "Mad Men."

prose poem for a pagan holiday

easter saturday, day of extremes. from the bucolic scenery of warren county, jersey, placidly sinister in its recession ravished spring dress, the forsythias like strip mall sirens mocking the sere corn stubble of fields that haven't yet paid homage to america's 180 from the athenian ideal. their tendrils beckon me to find something better

than canal st. at this hour, the fake five dollar vendors closed like day blooming jazz.
over the manhattan bridge the lights look like anemones, an inverse easter bouquet.

there's beauty in the oddest places. even myrtle ave, clinton hill, where the double parked drivers and the u-turners don't pretend
they are anything other than.

the 12 between worlds

i ended wednesday and started thursday, far from where i started, though i only traveled the length of my apartment and, out in the world, within a 12-mile radius. i rose at nine, early for me, my cat curled warmly in that harbor between elbow and thigh, and read chapters 13-16 of irène némirovsky "suite francaise" propped on pillows still smelling of dreams. i rose, fed the cat, brushed teeth, took out garbage and recycling while in my pajamas because i like to extend the boundaries of sleepwalking to encompass the quotidian. eventually, however, the quotidian insisted, politely but unequivocally, like the WW2 germans in french villages; we all know who rules the daytime: the body and the bank account (and is it a wonder that quotidian and quota share the same root?). so i breakfasted, on wheetabix liberally strewn with pecans and dried apricots then showered and dressed in black slacks,black boots, black turtleneck, a vintage 1979/80 burgundy velvet blazer, and, the final touch, a handcrafted pendant depicting a "men at work" figure shoveling. this is the closest i get to corporate drag. so armored, i went out into the world, resume in hand.

i never made it to the table where the interviewer for the english teaching job i intended to apply for sat. instead i spur of the moment switched camps and talked to the communications/performing arts guy and two visual artists. they were fairly alone on their cafeteria table islands, far from the madding and maddening crowd.

twelve miles later, i was back at home, my head pounding with the headache of ideas, that adrenaline-spurred rush that only good physical exertion can tame. so i traded suit for shin-guards and headed another twelve miles out in a totally different direction, to hold center for a team of over-competitive soccer princesses, who all came of age long after title 9 and cringe at the thought of turning 30 while i, though no stranger to cringing, decided, for the time being at least, to let the gray streak in my hair fly the flag of my almost 41 years. i took two breaks but ground the hell out of the 30 minutes i played the field. it killed my headache but buoyed my mood.

home for the night, i'm noting all this for the record. for some record. because the archaeologists of the future, who will all be data specialists, may perhaps marvel at the blogo/webo-sphere's dizzying effusion of "look at me! i lived a whole life before the hour changed."