It’s easy for her to see why I would be skeptical of brown bees living in purple hives. This aims to make conversational gambits deadlier or more transmutable than questions raised about the first Autumn rains.
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She told me the best way to tell the difference between veneration and love. But there was worse to come. A large brown bat flew near us and I prepared to defend her or die. She shouted deafly, not realizing the wooden shutters had flung wide open, revealing the sobriety of the clear blue air.
“I discovered a particular technique one morning in my studio at Siena, in a style similar to the treatment of light and shade in the early works of Fra Bartolo.” (page 311)
On the right is a long line of slender turtle-doves whose forms are in graceful contrast to the chubby, disheveled sheep on the left. It could be argued that this is a contextual field between residual and emergent aesthetics.
“Vallejo was moody but only on the outside, like a man who had been huddling in the shadows a long time. He had a solemn nature and his face resembled a rigid, quasi-hieratic mask. But his inner self was something else again. I often saw him (especially when we managed to pry him away from his domineering wife, a tyrannical, proud Frenchwoman who was a concierge's daughter), yes, I saw him jumping up and down happily, like a schoolboy. Later he would slip back into his moroseness and his submission.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
I screamed with happiness, yes, literally screamed. Running towards her I could see she was on her knees studying something very carefully. Then she made the smallest turn of her head and spit into the wind.
Lifting her head from my shoulder, I expected to say a breathless goodbye, but it was tangled in weeds. Instead, there was the echo of tumbling books and magazines. She jeered at me and said, “We shall never gather firewood and sea-coal together!”.
“Whatever else there may be in art, there is this mysterious realm of certain formulas, abstract relations and syllables from the unconscious. These frames of reference in modern art are not generally understood by the viewer or the artist.” (page 201)
Over the last four months, I have been writing my vision of life. A pale cloud between smiling faces became a question asked on sudden impulse, while a wreath of oleander became my tortured moment.
I close my eyes and listen to her voice again, to that slowed uttering of a shrill cry. I can remember that grinding sound as we edged towards the green buoys. There was little hope left for us. Our endurance of beauty yawned and peacefully snored.
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