Different Floors of the House

Thursday, April 8, 2010


So, Tim Burton's Alice is a hit.  So what?  I'm not going to see it.  I'm done with Mr. Burton and his stinky band of merry catastrophers.

I'd rather talk about Lewis Carroll, but that gets all wacky--wocky--whatever.


I could talk about Cobain, then we could all get together for a cry.

Sorry, no.  That's what shotguns do, they go boom.

I'm thinking of a certain WWII vet I knew when I was a child; thinking, reasoning and doing childish things.  Maybe you knew this guy.  Maybe he was the guy down the street, maybe he was your grandfather or someone's parent. Could have been your parent, I don't know. He was the guy that did a weekend's worth of gardening before brunch on Saturday and spent the rest of the weekend in a lawn chair by the garden, watching, waiting, listening. For what, I don't know. He said very little with his mouth. He spoke Biblical proportions with his eyes.

I am thinking about this man today. I don't why. Just am. The immaculate tool shed is what I'm thinking about, really.

The disdainful nonchalance we held in our youths for the traditions of our betters is a sick, sick thing. And that we allowed every exterior influence to reinforce our little tantrummy rebellions is a tragedy.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

There's some Burton in that, some Cobain, and definitely some Carroll.  Or maybe there's just the golden haze of memory's pristine tool shed. 

That's all.