The sadness of Mondrian
Woke up with this thought this am: the sadness of Mondrian thinking not much of it.
Heard about him but knew nothing of his sadness.
Turns out he was am artist focusing on trees. That rinds me of my tree in my secret garden, the weeds of Balaton, where the waves gently rock the cradle that parttakesthe longing of the young fisherman. and for most but not last, my weeping willow in the back which has almost died.
Last time an unexpected Minerva looking owl perched there, perhaps to signal a boy’s forever parting.
Where he went one never knows, but grandma being psychic somewhat, foretold after her death it was she that the owl heralded.
Now the other psychic . having national renown says, that the kid is where he flew into. and it’s kind of appearent of that soothsayers premonition, judging by resemblances of both spirit and behavior. The even look alike!
That brings it to the trees, the sadness of really large trees, as they whistle through the bluish grey forewarning elation of what’s to come being only layers of reenactment.
Oh my.
Paul Bowles:
. “Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well.”
Paul Bowls wife was under the spell if a strange Moroccan woman, whose companionship she couldn’t abandon.
This incredibly strong attraction was somewhat parallel to the attraction that the evils of drug money had, to avoid it. What dies the kid no, of the pleasure palaces of ancient Xerxes?
My love is strong as the fountains of ancient eternal minarets that echo through the lonesome landscapes of sheltering skies , …unmoved by the corruption that only the extasis of neutral faint colors can bring.