Later in June

So I am amazed at the power of the written  published word.  I know who reads (or read see below) the blog, so what do I say. Is it for 1 or 2 or 20 or two trillion.  Writing for 2 excites me.  I indulge my exhibitionism.  Pretending that it is private and saying things that I might not say.   Dropping a pretense.  Is that bad, even to 200 or 2000.

Anyway having extolled freedom, I will now, in the interest of probity, say nothing more.
But I will say more.  Perhaps more things (some different) than I should say.

Some are true and some are not.

I'm a conceptual artist.  My life is my work.  There was a period when it was boring.  Kind of like working for 30 years at IBM.  I'm trying to pick it up now, get an upbeat ending, maybe put it in a festival or two.  Who knows?

Our daily contest is for meaningless quote/clip of the day.  I ask you to participate because considering the social capital represented by the members of out to pasture enterprises . com, and using the facebook model  of valuing social enterprises, I value our group at $943. and I need to do something about the storm windows and that would really help.

Then there's the question of how important is sex. What's the question.  What might be the answers?  No question.  Ask my other. Not my Mother.  It is a question that I might have wanted to discuss with my mother if (with a mother such as mine) a discussion such as that would not have violated propriety.

But then maybe I should direct this post at my sisters as well.  Double my world if they would invest the time.  It'll be like my last blog post except in email.  Would either of you, or did you, discuss sex with our parents.  Or your parents? or your kids, or their kids?

So that's what we'll do here.  Talk about sex.  Why?  We each have our own answer.  I am old and I am still interested.  I hope.  But you may disagree.  Please do ....

And I find myself writing and, who knows, maybe publishing, soft-porn.  Perhaps the next Nordic trilogy (whose name I obviously forget) will spring from my our not yet arthritic finger tips.  


So gentle readers, the stage is set.  Will I , or will you blog readers do it for me, send emails to my sisters.  They are "fortunately entitled to their privacy so I can't give the emails here".


So, is this insane.  Yes or no.  


I'm undecided.


Tag your it.

Barcelona: June 2012

Sitting in the Park seeing the scribbles which brought me back to Sunday and a beer with Jennie and Luis, I thought how nice it is to live in a park.  After what was lifetime in the box.
And it is.

Crossing from sun to shade and seeing the fountain from another view.  A schizoid homeless guy is my only companion and the difference is that I have a pencil and write my thoughts.  No one else is alone to enjoy it all as it unfolds.  Is this consciousness of self, self-consciousness, or is it included by Feynman's wonder that his understanding of the heavens could fail to enhance his joy at their beauty.  

To hear the sound of the fountain and see the shadows.  It is easy to imagine the desire to capture it and share a vision.  I prefer to enjoy alone, sharing, if at all, with a companion.  So I decide that I will start and try to share her madness as she has promised to try and share mine.  And so, tomorrow, I will be with her when she paints, and then who knows.

And then I go back in somewhere, here, and have my way and say what I will and what came before is not followed by what came next.

I sit watching, seeing first the fat girl with the bright red hair wearing a striped, tight shirt;  and then, the medi-ambiente worker in bright yellow vest.  They punctuate the air.  Life happens and I am there, observing.  A part of it and apart from it.  I write it, making it happen.

The writing itself is a shuffling of worlds.  Is that a way to see something new.

Walking to another spot where a woman and her dog walk away.  I sit and watch the 20 somethings play balance in the air and remember what it was like to be able to do anything.

It is a joy to be here.  I am lucky.  I am fortunate to be, to enjoy,  For years, I was only what I did.

The next morning at the beach.  The sun is hot, the water cold.  Music plays: the sound of the surf mixed with Pharaoh Saunders.

My sybarite's dream fulfilled.  I am easily pleased or very lucky.

Or both.  Anyway, a week later things are pretty much the same.  Works for me although I wish I would ...., I wish I would ....  And back to being a 63 year (almost) year old youth not yet able to function in an appropriate fashion.  I think of the evening and wanting sex.  And now I'll find out who (if anyone) actually reads blogs.