Stray Writings

(XXVII)

It’s strange.  You look at the advertisements and you expect them to explain it all, not just entice; when, let’s be honest enticing is what it’s supposed to do, through and through.

I ride through the streets, as if I’m looking over the artwork and judging it; sighing and sweeping and taking all colors and lights into mind; the world is full and round and present.  The artwork is compact and, like the rest of the architecture, filthy and aware of itself.  The great denial of this town is that it has promise.  There is no promise, but that is what the Westernization is dangling over all of the heads here.

Most of us are traveling on the beige and brown and filthy buses.  We are pretending our arms are not hanging softly out the windows.  We are pretending that the stop and start of the traffic is a heartbeat, a permissible constant, a reminder that we are the servant of our own population.

Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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