It was a morning of miracles… and that doesn’t mean that bunnies showed up howling, “Harvey!” nor desert jews rose up from the dead calling “Holy!”, but I’ll say this much: it’s good to see the sun and the bloom of flower and the coming green of new leaf, but I am hung up on one painting that twists and turns out of influence and authorship and suddenly smiles at me like a Basquiat So when spring comes around – and a young-turning old man’s mind turns towards love – why not think of death? Why not revisit the golden boy’s grave and ask: “What next? You who finished so early, must have a few closing gestures left up your boney sleave. How do I finish this? … you precocious, dead, bastard?”
As impure as my anger at Basquiat’s long silenced facility may seem, I suddenly joined it with the Easter Sunday news and thought maybe Rumsfeld should come with me and garner the wisdom of those who came out in fast, glorious shot and failed in the long haul.
Anyway it was a tour of tombs and I was glad to see that more people were visiting JMB now than when last we met. Also since last year’s visit modernism (or more acurately post modernism, or is it post post?) has come to the dead of Broooklyn in the form of a mausoleum complex. Later, I went to the gate and had a beer and read half of a short story by Murakami in an ancient New Yorker. The story was called The Kidney Shaped Stone That Moves Every Day. The stone I had left on JMB’s grave was shaped like a kidney.
