Marguerite Duras said that writing comes like the wind, and that it is made of ink. If that were true, I would want to be an old and wrinkly person going out in the wind and making the most excellent designs with my face. The windier the day, the more wrinkly I am, the more excellent my face would be, and the more writing you would find about it, while all the while newspapers are blowing down the street and helping little hats dance away like notions and jiggers to new places under cars and over marquees and hot dog stands and brains.
I kicked over the box filled with miniature lamb, wise men, donkeys and baby Jesus at the yard sale. I hate writing the word Jesus because it seems like an easy one to write for a quick joke (think ELVIS, BARBIE, ZSA ZSA) - but I want to tell you what happened yesterday along with what did not happen, and this is what happened.
When I kicked over the box I waited to hear You break it you buy it but instead I heard Don’t Worry It’s Just Jesus I asked How much? And I heard I could never sell Jesus. This is all just one big goddam Jesus joke, I cried and
I left in tears and came back with my checkbook only to discover she couldn’t sell Jesus, but she could give him away, which she most certainly did. I spent an hour or two in the grass looking for baby lamb. Finding baby lamb in the grass would make everything better. I must find a lamb or two before it rains, because it is going to rain.
There’s a book written in the 1600’s that catalogues all the known colors. It has a very complicated name: Traité des couleurs servant à la peinture à l'eau: “Treaty of Colors Known To Paint The Water.” It was written by a man named Boogert, whom we know little about.
His handwriting was exquisite.
He was perhaps Dutch. Much of his book is in French.
The book is 800 pages long.
There is a butterfly on the frontispiece.
The colors are separated by family and numbered rather than named.
Were the colors to be named, would we know the names ourselves? Think of all the objects in Holland and France that have been lost in the last four hundred years. Think of all the objects that have been gained. The colors remain the same. That is perhaps true. We could argue about that forever. And by then, the names would have changed. As might the colors. Again, about this, we could argue.
Across from the butterfly is a man, drawing a drawing of a painting.