You are here: in Purgatory

Having read, studied and been forced to actually eke out an essay or two on Il Purgatorio, the metaphor that comes to mind is that of the soul's purification through fire. Sounds appealing, given the current climactic conditions.

And this t-shirt once belonged to a guy--we'll call him Firenze (like the Centaur) rather than Florence (like the actress who played Mrs. Brady)--who made it a habit to while away his toilet time with Il Purgatorio. Symbolism or superstition? Discuss. 

Have you come to a decision? Please share. Anyhow, the t-shirt was a symbol for me. I couldn't let it go long after I'd stopped wearing it. But then I did. I snapped this picture and threw it out. And I can honestly say I haven't missed it.

If I did, or if I ever do, I can pay it and everything it stood for a visit. I have its current address:
www.burpenterprise.com 

You are here: in the frame

If only. You are really in a place and time where the function and purpose of sunglasses remain but a brow-wrinkling abstraction. You are stranded on the tundra, winter behind you, winter before you, no end to winter in sight. I've reflected on how to light a fire in the arctic desert and found that serial grumpiness is a damp match. So I called on my inner philosopher, who actually just wanted to crawl back into bed, and that in turn made me think of hibernation. An absolutely rational and biologically sound institution. Unfortunately impractical. But in a broader sense, I realized, it's exactly right. Rather than fighting for more energy and a sunnier outlook, let things rest and darken and germinate. Adopt a sexy Russian pessimism and an expression of slight contempt, and although you don't smoke, assume the attitude of someone just about to absentmindedly hand-roll a cigarette and smoke it with a hazy look of despair in his eye. What you'd really be doing underneath the ice is a sort of hibernation-dream, healthy and necessary for sprouting in the spring, featuring fragments of your life in the sun (right: you could alternatively adopt the airs of a 17th century vampire)-- like this one.

Not a vampire. A fragment of my life in the sun.

You are here: Chez Arbus/Hopper

This is not about Arbus or Hopper, really, but it is about a gal and a guy and about going to a place together where you don't buy anything because nothing's for sale. You just look. The stuff you look at is in this place because there is some consensus that the stuff is worth looking at. We came to see Hopper's stuff and ended up seeing Arbus' as well. Hopper and Arbus took photographs, and the stuff in them varied. Hopper's had people in them, many of them famous people, but there were pictures of places and advertisements and everyday stuff in them too. Arbus took pictures of people, mostly not famous people. We had never been to view stuff like this before together. Nevertheless by the time we got through Arbus we were both having fun, and we agreed we liked her stuff the best and we no longer worried about the consensus or saying the right thing. I recommend viewing stuff that's not for sale on a Sunday afternoon with a person you think you might love.