Pop in fresh, dough boy, said the Germans on the other side of no-man's land, trenchantly. Enough of your tankless onsluaghts, we treaded carefully, around the subject, the subjective and the subjunctive. Or might would could've'd, co-ordinate Claus and subordinate Claus at Christmas time, a gift of speeches and cream, pyre are squared, rounded hedged and lopped sided.
We left the dough boy behind, but the painting, which I did in the Spring of 2006, is in our house and will soon be moved to Durham, where the most beautiful woman in the world resides. It's an expressionist landscape. Why don't I do more of them? My hope is that eventually I will do paintings as thick and indecipherable as Auerbach or Kiefer or de Kooning.
How I wish that I were in Durham right now, even as Jami is concocting vichyssoise of indescribable richness and warmth.
1 comment:
"Onsluaghts?"
It's good, honey--but maybe you need to go ahead and pack ALL the Joyce in the house. And throw in Joyce Kilmer and Joyce Carol Oates just to be safe.
Love,
your wife
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