Linda the Bridge Walt Whitman

 

Sometimes

I think I made you up

to satisfy some requirement

I couldn’t handle alone.

When I put my glasses on

I am you.

If that isn’t flaky enough,

today I found myself

wondering if it wasn’t me

who baked the pies

and brought them to the party.

There’s probably a name

for this sort of bologna

and it ought to scare me

but it DON’T.

I have also been:

my father

in his Italian dinner jacket

and a Pagan property

in a seafood restaurant

ordering “some of dis

and some of dat

and some of dose”

My only consolation

at times when I get out of joint

is knowing I am not alone.

Last Christmas Rupert

was a lizard in regressive evolution.

And you, long before we met

spent your time suspended

supporting the rush hour traffic

over the Delaware.

(Leo)

"Everything that has ever happened to us is there to make us stronger." John Trudell

 

John Trudell - Warrior for Peace

AKA Grafitti Man - listen to samples

My Warehouse Eyes

Laverne (by Leocadia)

I was in a waterfront town with warehouse buildings and shady people.  I bought a dress from a woman.  A two piece dress of a printed fabric.  There was a lot of pink in the dress, in the back ground.  The print was abstract; black lines, straight and curved, converging, intersecting. Some line segments were isolated and not interacting with other lines at all.  I ran across a long, wide street, amazed at my speed and agility.  But why was I running?  There was no need to run.  I looked both ways.  Nothing to the left, and to the right, only one car on the road, heading slowly towards me from a far distance.  I could barely see the headlights.   

At one point, as I ran across the road, I flew or leaped.  It was a wonderful surprise. I didn’t know I could do such a thing.  I felt amazed and exhilarated.  I was  pleased with my self, proud of my newfound ability.  Then I began to careen off to one side, flying sideways and fearing I would certainly crash, but somehow, thankfully, I managed to land safely on my feet in the parking lot on the other side.  I was wearing my brown boots.  I always knew they had some magic in them. 

The landscape was desolate, remote, industrial.  The kind of industry that needs space, not people.  Parking lots, storage buildings, freight cars.  It was getting dark.  I noticed that I did not have my purse and would have to go back to that other world to get it.  What hope did I have that it would still be there?  So many characters of disrepute, surely they would have seized the opportunity to make off with it.  I thought about the contents.  Only a small amount of cash, nothing to worry about.  But my credit cards, check book, passport, social security.  My identity.  Banks and agencies would have to be notified.  I didn’t want to be a victim of identify theft.  

There were other things in my purse that were important to me, significant things, sentimental and sacred  items.  Rosary beads, carnelian and lapis lazuli, a gift from my daughter.  A silver crucifix.  Two large cobalt marbles.  Xanax.  A very good pair of tweezers.  A pocket knife.  A small address book.  I ran back across the street and headed in the general direction of the shop where I had purchased the dress, the fitting room stall in which I had tried it on.  It seemed futile but it was worth a shot.

Suddenly I noticed my purse was back around my neck and over my shoulder again,  as I always carry it.  It had magically reappeared.  I checked inside.  Nothing was missing.  It was then I remembered the man from Nairobi who stood outside the warehouse near the railroad tracks.  Old and withered.  Dark skinned.  Bob Dylan.  A nagual.  don Juan Matus.  A separate reality.  I was thirsty and he had given me a sip of his water.  It was probably drugged and that is why my purse disappeared and then reappeared.  I was in shape shifting country.  The drink was laced with peyote. 

But still, where was the two piece dress I had purchased.  I had to go back for that.  All of the warehouses looked the same and were tremendously large, packed with row upon row and rack upon rack of merchandise. It would be like walking through an endless maze.   How would I find the shop of the woman who had sold me the two piece dress?  It was a daunting task.  

 

Pink & black collograph print by artist Jesse Warford

Art Centers - Supporting artists with disabilities  

 untitled tempera & pencil on paper found in early 1960s-era sketchbook

The mischievous and diabolic art of James Flora (1914-1998)

Jim Flora Blog Spot 

I. M. Pei

 Pyramide du Louvre

I Can't Find U Anywhere

Old Man in Red
1654

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn

The Hermitage, St. Petersburg, Russia.

They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones

(Bob Dylan, Simple Twist of Fate)

I can’t find U anywhere*

Not in the pantry. Not on the porch. Not in the basement or the mezzanine. . Not coming or going on any of the 131 stairways, 19 escalators or 13 elevators. I searched each of the 284 rest rooms to no avail. I know how silly this seems, nonetheless, I even looked in each and every one of the 672 fire hose cabinets. I agree, all of this seems desperate if not downright insane. Hey, what can I say? That’s what love does to people. “This is the brain on love.” Fried like an egg. Love can make fools of people easier than rabbits can make babies.

I went to the garden for a smoke, sat down on a bench next to an old bewhiskered man in a ratty black trench coat and asked him if there were any secret corridors that the average visitor like me wasn’t aware of. He looked kind of official. There was some sort of insignia on his red beret and he was wearing a badge of some sort, mostly hidden by the lapel of his coat, making it impossible for me to read what it said. He definitely had a strange demeanor; a presence that was not ordinary. Stately, I would say. Yes, stately is an apt way to describe him.

He appeared to be thinking. His eyes seemed to be riveted on something far away. I wondered for a moment if he was a Knight Templar who somehow got lost in time. Me and my imagination. Watching the History channel too often. It was more like a Monty Python skit. He was eating a bologna sandwich. There was mayonnaise on his bottom lip and some more of it dribbling down his chin. It was nasty. I felt a bit bad for the old fellow, and yet, at the same time, I didn’t want to embarrass him and bring it to his attention by offering him a napkin. I never know what to do in cases like that.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to let anything sidetrack me. I was on a mission. I showed him the photograph I always carry. The one where we are sitting together on a park bench feeding pigeons right next to the “Do Not Feed the Pigeons” sign. He looked at it, took it from my hand, moved it closer to his eyes and peered at it as if he was examining evidence. Forensic love evidence. I was afraid he’d get mayonnaise on it so I took it from him quickly and slipped it back into my pocket. I persisted. “I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find hide nor hair of him. He can’t have disappeared into thin air.”

He cocked his head to one side, smiled cynically, and looked to the sky as if searching for an answer, then he raised one bushy eyebrow and said, “Who knows. Maybe he did.” He reached into his pocket. “Oh good,” I said to myself, “he’s finally going to wipe that mayonnaise off his face.” I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Instead of a napkin, he retrieved a harmonica. Yep. That’s right. A harmonica. I handed him a napkin. He wiped his face. And then he started to play; “It ain’t me, babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me, babe, it ain’t me …....."

*The letter "U" is nowhere to be found in the above short story, except for the title of course.

by Leocadia (2008)

    

Bob Dylan - Simple Twist of Fate from Félix P. on Vimeo.

……….

Blackie

Original image from the film, Jesus of Nazareth, Franco Zeffirelli

When Jesus was nine years old he wanted a dog. He wanted a dog sooooooo bad. But his mother hated dogs, she was bitten by one when she was a young girl and still had a nasty scar on her right forearm to remind her of that awful experience. Whenever young Jesus brought a stray dog home and asked his mom if he could keep it, the answer was always the same. "Jesus. How many times do I have to tell you?   No!   No dogs!  And that's that!"  Then she would get out her broom and shew the poor smelly creature away.

One day Jesus was taking a walk when he came upon a gang of boys throwing rocks at a little black lamb.  It was the same group of boys who bullied him whenever they had the opportunity, mostly when there were no adults around.   Jesus felt for the little lamb.  It gave him a pain in the throat to see the lamb being tortured like that.   He yelled for the boys to stop throwing rocks at the innocent creature. They ignored him of course, and called him names like idiot, weirdo, white trash from Nazareth.   They threw a few rocks his way too.

Just as he was about to turn around and head home the shepherd who owned the herd from which the little black lamb had strayed, came by and told the gang of boys to get the heck off his property or he would kick their butts. They fled. The shepherd's name was Moe Finklestein.  He was a big dude. Moe saw that Jesus had been crying and assumed it was because of the bullies, but he didn't want to humiliate Jesus even further so he acted like he was clueless and said, "What are you crying about, kid?"  Jesus wiped his nose on his sleeve, looked up at Moe, and said, "The little black lamb."

Moe scratched his head. "Don't take it so hard," he said. "That lamb is worthless. First of all it's black, secondly, it's a runt, and third, the rest of the herd despise it because it's not like them. Even its own mother doesn't want it. No one passing by on their way to Jerusalem will buy it for a sacrifice, they only want the whitest lambs I've got. I just came out here today to get it and slaughter it for dinner tomorrow. So don't waste your tears little buddy."

Jesus felt like throwing up when he heard that. He said "How much do you want for it, Mister?"

Now Moe, he was a pretty discerning guy, even though he didn't look like much of a scholar. "Well, I'll tell you what. Are you any good with a saw and a hammer?"

Jesus' eyes lit up. "I sure am," he said. "My dad's the best carpenter in town and he's teaching me everything he knows." Of course, Moe already knew that.

"Well then," said Moe, "Howsa bout you coming over to my place on Monday morning, 7 am sharp. I got a shed that needs some mending and the Mrs. has been wanting a new table for a long time. In return, the black lamb is all yours. Deal?"

"Deal," said Jesus.  He and Moe high-fived it and then he picked up the little black lamb and ran home with it lickety split.  He couldn't wait to tell his mother of his good fortune and ask her "pretty please" could he have the little black lamb for a pet. "Maybe it's only dogs she don't like," he thought, hopefully, joyfully.

Mary was hanging the wash when he got there. Jesus put down the little lamb, it bleated and walked slowly over to her, licking her hand as she reached absentmindedly into the basket for another garment to hang. She was startled out of her reverie.  She had so many reveries, she was always looking off into the distance deep in thought, sometimes Jesus had to say "Mother" a gazillion times before he got her attention. "Jumping Jehoshaphat," she said. And then she knelt down by the lamb and nuzzled her nose against the black fur. "I had a little lamb like you when I was just a wee girl."

"Can we keep her, Mother?" asked Jesus. "Can she be my very own little black lamb?"

"Jesus" she said, using a school teacher's voice, pretending to be stern, "what have I told you about sharing?" And then she laughed. Jesus laughed too. And hopped around on one foot singing "Zippity Doo Dah".

Mary asked, "What are you going to name him?'

Jesus said, "Duh. Blackie. What else?"

(by Leocadia)

Beginning Life Anew: a story that bears repeating

Sir Anthony Van Dyck

It was a part of our Lord's ministry among men to restore to health the body as well as the soul. He was often moved with compassion by the disease and suffering which he saw as he went about Galilee or passed through the streets of Jerusalem. St. John, the evangelist (chapter v.), relates an incident which took place at a pool called Bethesda near a sheep market in Jerusalem.

There were here five porches in which lay "a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water." It seems that at certain intervals the waters of the pool were troubled, as if moved by some unseen agency. It was believed that the first person stepping in thereafter would be healed of any disease he might have.

"And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity thirty and eight years. When Jesus saw him lie, and knew that he had been now a long time in that case, he saith unto him, Wilt thou be made whole? The impotent man answered him, Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool: but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me. Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk. And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked."

In our picture, Jesus has already brought the paralytic to his feet, and now sends him on his way. Two other men complete the group, but take no part in the conversation. One is a disciple, perhaps John, who accompanies the Master, the other is a spectator peering curiously over the paralytic's shoulder.

The restored paralytic carries under one arm a rug, which has been clumsily rolled into a bundle. This is the sort of "bed" used among the poor of Eastern countries. He is but half clad in a garment which slips from his shoulders, showing his emaciated form. The face is sharpened by suffering; he is altogether a strange and repulsive figure, representing a degraded class of humanity.

He leans now towards his unknown friend in a pitiable effort to express his gratitude. The eyes have a look of dumb devotion like those of a faithful dog. He lays one hand humbly upon his breast. Jesus turns to him with an expression of infinite compassion. He reads the man's heart with his searching glance. Thanks he does not need; his first care is to send the man forth to begin life anew.

The sequel of the story illustrated in our picture:

It happened to be the Sabbath day, and, as the restored paralytic passed through the city, the Jews said unto him: "It is not lawful for thee to carry thy bed."

He answered them, "He that made me whole, the same said unto me, Take up thy bed, and walk."   Then asked they him, "What man is that which said unto thee, Take up thy bed, and walk?"   And he that was healed wist not who it was: for Jesus had conveyed himself away, a multitude being in that place.

Afterward Jesus findeth him in the temple and said unto him, "Behold, thou art made whole: sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee."   The man departed, and told the Jews that it was Jesus, which had made him whole.

Take up they bed and walk

 

Christ Healing the Paralytic

c.1619

Sir Anthony Van Dyck (1599-1641)

Acquired by George IV

This is the work of a supremely brilliant 20-year-old Van Dyck working in Rubens’s studio and very possibly executing a Rubens design, under the supervision of the elder master. This compositional type - an intense, spectator-jostling drama where the canvas area is barely able to contain a small number of half-length figures - was invented by Caravaggio (1571-1610). An excellent example, the Calling of Sts Peter and Andrew of c.1605, is in the Royal Collection. The type was frequently copied by Italian and Netherlandish artists during the first two decades of the seventeenth century. Caravaggio also invented the idea of divine, classically dressed figures rubbing shoulders with the meanest member of the modern street. This encounter has here been rendered more acceptable by basing the paralytic on an antique statue, then thought to depict the death of Seneca and recorded by Rubens in a series of drawings - one of which (when reversed) provides the precise model for this figure. The man is clearly a wretch: he has the bodily imperfections - rounded back, gnarled muscle forms, prominent veins and mean physiognomy - which contemporaries would have read as the outwards signs of an unfortunate and a sinner. Yet at least his wretchedness is expressed in the language of classical antiquity. He makes an obvious contrast with the nobility of the Apostle to the right, who could be based on one of a variety of classical busts familiar to anyone working in Rubens’s studio.

In this intense drama Van Dyck (or more probably Rubens) expresses the way in which St Matthew’s Gospel (9: 2-8) describes a calling as well as a healing. It immediately precedes the calling of Matthew himself (9: 9). Christ sees the faith of those attending the paralytic and outrages some Pharisees by first telling him that his sins are forgiven him. This, he says, is more difficult than the simple task of healing, which is then duly accomplished. In this powerful image Christ draws the man up from his knees, and ushers him from out of darkness into the light, in an interaction similar to depictions of the Harrowing of Hell. The Apostle here is most likely to be the recently called St James, the pilgrim saint; all three characters in the drama seem to be setting off on a pilgrimage.

Commentary and Magnification  on and of this and other paintings in the British Royal Collection