Art of Europe

once, deciding he should make more sense more
he went for a long walk by the sea but not in the nude at all but dressed waywardly yet in an imaginary cravat undone at the neck and dishevelled but not in the least bit or part unkempt, or thinking much at all.

on his return he was surprised to find a pair of parrots in his room (they squawked to be free, to be free - he opened the window and they flew, flew away).

& it is good, don't you think, to have a lot of pictures? i keep mine in the cupboard under the stairs when they're not being hung or aired. i'm quite lucky, s'pose. i've got quite a collection now, or so i imagine. i change my displays on a regular basis, seasonally, sometimes, othertimes, unseasonally. he's been thinking of late that he might become a girl, but is undecided. later this evening he decides that he may read some beckett by candlelight if the mood takes me with a slow surprise and he's not too exhausted from this afternoon's exertions, which haven't even happened yet

for still it is morning. it is the very first morning of the world. the sun is brightly shining all over everywhere and i am awake quite early and quite happy and quite delighted in my being alive... i seem to kind of dance quite a lot, round and round and round...

some would say there's no real or intrinsic story to life of course but it's wholesome and good to have some narrative art on your walls (i think) - i put up an angelico on one wall and a brueghel on another and make tentative plans for taking an early lunch after taking breakfast first, and having a bath of course.

for it is good to be the human animal, don't you think, to be cleansed and washed and ready for sex, life, adventure, all that - he listens to some late chopin for a while and glances his hairline briefly in a mirror - he remembers not to get too frantic - all will be well

he goes to the nightclub in his best pink frock looking for a transgenital eurasian or somesuch thing but it's only 11.30 in the morning and he is out of luck - he goes next door to tesco instead and purchases four bottles of port and a dozen oranges and walks on home, bereft of understanding, along the long prom, toward newlyn on the hillside, beyond penzance by the sea, smiling secretively, smiling frequently, smiling aloud...

i asked him once why his favourite colour was pink and he said that it reminded him of christmas which i didn't understand at all, and went for a little sleep

when i woke later, in pyjamas, worn at the knee, from too much kneeling (at woman's pudenda), i put on a lumber jacket, went outside, and chopped down a tree (was i still dreaming?) - went then back indoors and made a fresh pot of tea. i wondered if i shouldn't take the angelico down and put up a degas instead. i peeled two oranges and ate them quite elegantly and then kind of suddenly remembered...

that the truth of course was that he went for no long walk by the sea, nor had possession of a cravat, imaginary or otherwise, nor many clothes, nor any means at his disposal, nor any wherewithal, nor any port or orange in the house, nor house, but just a pair of quietly fading bananas, on a kitchen shelf by the sea...

and some pictures of course

and the odd prufrock allusion and these few rooms like something from hannah's sisters only a great bit grander, or smaller of course

he took all hanging pictures down and stacked them against the others in the cupboard under the stairs and decided to re-decorate the place entirely - beginning with the bedroom in case a lady of the night should care to come and care to stay, for longer than the evening...

o softest udders of woman, o gentleness gently swaying, o softly forested passageway, o the night the night the long long dark, i am yours once again la petite mort...

let there be a gauguin on one of the walls in the bedroom then and baudelaire on the bedside table but as she arrives through the door (and shall there be a garden at all and shall it be kept tidily and shall i have a garden at all?) - what there then?

fuk it, i say, silly and stupid and tentative as older yet in new female company to be adding the letter c, or using the word, come in come in, i in my slippers yet, she quick-glancing a vermeer upon a hallway wall...

fancy a shag? she feigned startled, demured and i was disappointed.
what do you do here she asked and i replied that i was trying to sell the finest fine art prints (eg. cezanne, goya, rembrandt, etc) for sale on the world wide web but she wasn't in the least bit interested, and removed none of her clothes... oh well, off you go then i said mutely as she left, raising my voice not even to a sound audible wherever in the universe as she went off into the long long night, unheeding, unlistening

An Introduction