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Painter ...

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... Nathaniel Mary Quinn was ruled by an atmosphere of abandonment. His DNA was changed when he was fifteen and returned home from a private school and his   apartment in a Chicago project was empty. His father and four brothers were nowhere to be found and he never saw them again. He is 49. At the time he decided that academic excellence was non negotiable and his way out. His mother infused him with optimism and faith. Grief has been the constant noise to any success he's achieved. I like him a lot as a person. I don’t like his art. It's been described as retina punishing and reminds me that I am a sucker for a certain degree of beauty. And I can’t believe that Bella Freud didn’t ask him why his family abandoned him.  As always, mystery abounds and is afoot.
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I forget sometimes

It's amazing and wonderful how much we can do for each other. How much we can do and mean and be with each other. It can startle you when it suddenly becomes apparent. Appears. Does its thing. Works.  This is the perfect follow up to yesterday's post. Bobby boy basking in the beautiful bounty of joy on account of another. Others. Important to discover, remember, sense, do. 
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the lovin' spoonful

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  Johnny Carsons ex-wife's "spoonful” of Truman Capote's ashes sold at auction in   2016 for $43,750.
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Trees

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  Melon collie climbs up as down goes the day  & wants to stay up past the midnight hour  & thankfulness & miss-fullness too  for faces & times when ease was big & new things showed bold  & yearning was smaller & laughter taller  but mostly for longer this tiny all time ache in air & sky & wider still on streets  wiffs sweet & tart & also wild rings  the drain ensues as well as trees & stories of when hours were rocky but right in attitude & determination & progress.  politics, songs, words & motions.  Art. Redemption. Both close friends.     
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POEM/1965

  In summertime in quiet wood and friendly shade from secret regions of myself my soul screams the question ancient as man and older than the sound of human song Must we die so soon? Must we sicken and suffer and cry for comfort? Must great men and infants be plucked from our midst well before their time by the thousand awful plagues that steal inside us? If we can build a nation out of virgin land                                                                                                                                                ...
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UMBRELLA

  A man in his forties bangs on the knocker of a brownstone. A woman with a flat affect opens the door. Bill Hello, Diane. Diane He’ll be down in a minute.   Bill What’s he doing? Diane He’s learning to tie his shoe.  Bill He’s advanced.  His bilateral integration is off the charts. Despite herself, she releases a constrained giggle.  Bill contd What?  Diane Nothing,  Nothing.  Bill It’s true.  Diane I guess it’s true then. Bill It is.  ( pause ) I like your new haircut.  Diane Yeah.  Sure.  Right.   Bill Oh, come on now, D. Be nice. It’s easier than you think.  Diane I’m going to the kitchen.  He’ll be right down.  She slams the door. He knocks again. She opens the door. Bill Why do you have to be so goddamn horrid?  Diane Because I want to be.  Because I ...
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