A couple of weeks ago, I managed to escape to the eastern flanks of the island to a small whitewashed tavern. I delivered myself to an image of the Virgin, hanging on a back wall of the bar. I called out, “Praise God, all is ok! Tonight there will be purple stove-pipe hats for everyone!”
Her words were often far from the truth. It turns out I was frequently duped into believing that her name was Electra. Our conversations were weighted down with no reference whatsoever to gravity or proportion. My breathing for the next three to five years became an improbable structure that surprisingly still stands.
“Many different aims have been assigned to art by many different theorists. Is the nature of art that holds us in check to any disposition to generalize an elastic-sided sentiment?”
That said, she has become more confused than one might expect. Underneath her studied rhetoric there are no shapes or hard edges. One can easily discern whorls of serpentine sentences from previous iterations. My final impression is fear for the safety of this old relic.
running the whole length of the horizon...