Where do I start? Reality For the first time, I put out a bird-feeder and after two weeks of no visitors, the wilds of the Northside found it. Now, I’m refilling it every day. Each morning, they – some 50 winged wilds – keep me company as I drink my espresso and eat my Costco corn muffin. On a dreary winter morning, their chirping, fluttering, littering, their bickering are all welcome. (Since January 1, Pittsburgh has had 4 sunny days.)
Fantasy The Roman Church is truly going through a wormhole. Dead Cardinal Pell, who is currently residing in the third ring of the seventh circle, is screaming because The Argentinian is talking about homosexuality. (It’s like a fat priest crashing the dinning hall at Auschwitz. Can’t you just picture it – his mouth covered in cake crumbs, his cardinal-red train fluttering behind him as he grabs his gold pectoral-cross and screeches, ‘Gluttony is a mortal sin; you’re all going to burn in hell.’)
And what about the German Georg Gänswein? Yes, he’s so smart, he writes a book instead of screaming. He screeches, he rants, he scribbles all about a dead Latin rite – OMG. Maybe a train fluttering in the Vatican breeze would settle his Hun heart? What about tea with Cardinal Burke; Leo could wear his ermine collar and bring his ‘train-boy’? No? … Methinks the lady doth protest too much.
The above image is shot through a window with a screen, hence its blurry quality. And compared to all the other wilds that come to feast, this Northern Cardinal female is hefty, full-figured. The featured image is by Kelly Flanagan. I follow her on Twitter.
The pots sit ready; the rocks lean left; and the sun is setting on the rich, white psychopaths.
Last year, I got rid of many items – rocks, cinder-blocks, bricks, planks, pots, decorations. But in simplifying, I didn’t have time to organize what was left. This year, with a stripped-down, minimized area, I ordered what remained.
Sometime at the beginning of April, I will fill the pots with violets – the first planting.
… We are the sum of our experiences; uniquely defined by our memories. We spend a lifetime gathering a collection of treasured object and symbols. Each of them holding a tiny fragment of our identity.
… I’ve been wanting to do a set of posts that present the various images in my head – pictures that belong to another time, another country, another sensibility. These images have been with me all my life, and now I realize they’re memories.
The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.L.P. Hartley, “The Go-Between“.
Anna Magnani The above image represents all the pictures in my head of Italian immigrants at weddings. Real people dancing; dancing before the reality of Lee Harvey Oswald, before the horrors of Vietnam, before the unraveling of Catholicism, and before the assimilation into a Canadian dullness. But Magnani is real; she’s luminous; her mouth hangs with laughter; her simple black dress caresses her body. There’s fun, there’s heat. Living in Sault Ste Marie, in a Calabrese community, in the 60s, I had relatives like Magnani.
Pier Paolo Pasolini Pasolini, with his back to the camera, heralds what’s coming; he’s the reality of Last Tango; he’s the horror of AIDS; he’s the unraveling of the lies of the 1950s; and he’s the assimilation of blacks, women and gays. But Pasolini is hidden; his head is down; he’s contorted. His vented jacket covers his ass; his pointy shoes squeeze his feet. There’s disquiet; there’s fear. Living in New York in the heady, lewd 70s, I had friends like Pasolini.
Both the above image and the featured image of Magnani are from online. The quote is from an episode of Vienna Blood.