June 13, 2019

Blessing on Yeats in Paradise.

Beginning cold and cloudy, the day moves toward afternoon glory.

I sat on the front stoop of the theater last night with a cup of wine in my hand. A black van stopped on the street opposite me. The driver moved over to the passenger side, stuck something meant to look like a gun out the window and said, “Money! Now!” Before I thought about it I barked back “Go fuck yourself!” He simply slid back into the driver’s seat and departed. I don’t know whether he fucked himself, but he did go. Myself, I just got into my car and drove home, assuming that the high point of the evening had passed.

This may be a new iteration of an old theme, but I tried to get Jill and Wiebke and the whole Title IX drama into Jason of the Apes. It simply doesn’t work. It would be like putting Donald Trump into a novel before there had been one, the actual statements, the genuine behavior too absurd, too far afield from reason and sanity to be believable in fiction. It would look like inventing a character merely to be ridiculous. God can do that, but we can’t.

Painting a Madonna in the wilderness.