| 1~7~00 |
| How time flies. Here I am, one full week into the new
year, over four months into life in southern California, and on my 88th
damn column.
Driving home yesterday after taking a roll of film to the Drug Emporium an item lain out curbside for the trash caught my eye. It was an old wood body television set on legs. The screen isn't soulless black when off, instead it has the murky depth serenity of yuck-ridden lake Mendota in late summer. There was a time when staring at a blank television screen wasn't necessarily a sign of a nigh comatose state of depression, but when vacantly gazing forward into its deep green-gray depths had a meditative quality akin to a commune with nature. Thinking thoughts like that, I turned down the street, parked the SUV and began the task of loading the television aboard. The struggle from curbside to SUV and from there into the backyard was the most strenuous work out I had seen since lugging the giant desk from St. Vincent DePaul's to the Buzz. (note: 2nd reference to Madison in this column. I've been having dreams about Madison a lot lately. The city might be in the process of purging itself from me as I lose that everyday familiarity with it. The dreams invariably wind up with Spindle and I shooting pool at the Wisco or some such daily occurrence that was really quite an enjoyable time but simply taken for granted then. It's not granted. Nothing is.) Now, I have an old wreck of a television in my backyard serving no other purpose but to look odd, out of place, and slightly anachronistic. I unscrewed its ply wood backing to get at the tube inside but the tube is held in place by hexagonal ended screws that I haven't the proper tool to take out at the moment. Once I have a screenless t.v. out back, I don't know what will happen from there. It ain't gonna be no stupid fucking art project. I hate that shit. It'll simply become "my thing." Children play with toys, bust 'em up, build new toys out of them, and create places for dolls to live and cars to drive and no ones out calling what these kids do art. so why should my old t.v. and whatever I do to it be called "art." It shouldn't. "Art" is a pompous and pretentious term for "what I play with." No toleration for pomp and pretense is what I say. This weekend I intend to begin preliminary work on my downtown
L.A. site. I don't know why, but downtown is slowly growing in my
mind as something mysterious. I see it every night on the drive home.
Cruising along the 134, out the driver's side window, there it is.
Glowing spectral green far across the valley. Its location seeming
to shift as the freeway makes a slow languid curve. Behind it is
the sea of fiery gem stones trailing off in perfect rows to the south,
barely visible over the hills. My mind spins at the size of it all.
The vastness of it. How many men and women it took to design, build,
wire, and live this magnificent work. Its beauty is mesmerizing and
transfixing and as I drive along I ponder, "Shit!!!" as I nearly side swipe
the car in the lane next to mine. Always pay attention to the road when
driving at speeds in excess of 80 mph. It is wise to take in majesty
at quick glances. Staring too long can be dangerous in many situations.
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