Tuesday, August 01, 2006
It's 100 degrees and something here in Brooklyn. Meanwhile, at the Antartic, it's 180 degrees below zero. Do I have that right?
The painting, San Joan, is, of course, from Spain and, of course, Romanesque. I've done so many paintings on this theme: the archway, the bridge, the mountains beyond. But no matter how many I do, I'm stuck on the inside looking out. Well, that's a whole theme which it's way too hot to write about today. Yes, of course, I'm destroying the enviorment by having my A/C on but my brain is out on the street, frying. Or is that dying?
Remember when you were a kid (oh, YOU were never that kid) and you really wanted to see if an egg would fry on the sidewalk? But where to get an egg from? Your mother was not about to hand over an egg for such an experiment. You just sat there, on the front stoop, your neck dirty with those little balls of wet dirt that formed in the crease, your braids, two hot ropes encasing your shoulders. Too hot to move, too hot to play, too hot to think. Until Uncle Miley came home and treated the kids to 'drumstick' ice cream cones from the place around the corner. That was New Orleans, the summer I was 7.