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Ignis Fatuus
Aug. 29th, 2019 07:29 amSpent hours and hours in the garden yesterday.
Harvested another 20 pounds of tomatoes. (Tomatoes! The gift that goes on giving!) And a few more cucumbers. And a cantaloupe that was hiding under the dying cucumber vines and had turned a luscious golden color. And chili peppers! So many chili peppers. Chili peppers were the star of the garden this year, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with them all.
I took Art Photos. This is the only one that really came out:
Claude was puttering around, so we had a long chat about the proper way to grow tomatillos in the Northeast. The Northeast is not exactly what you would call tomatillo country.
Chatting about the proper way to grow tomatillos is about all I’m good for conversationally these days.
Dying X-husbands take a lot out of you.
###
Came home with Big Plans to cook a vat of tomato sauce and a few tomato pies to freeze for winter.
But I found I didn’t have the energy to do that either.
So instead I watched the movie Mapplethorpe.
I have this idea that I should like Robert Mapplethorpe.
Patti Smith’s boyfriend! Guerilla fighter in the war against photography’s bias toward the mundane!
But, in fact, I don’t like Robert Mapplethorpe.
The fisting photos, the pix of a long black cock dangling outside a pair of cheap trousers, the pissing in the champagne flute shots, those images actively repel me—not because they’re sexual, but because they’re objectifications taken to an almost ad absurdum level.
Thank you, yes, I got the objectification subtext when I first grokked Andy Warhol. Mapplethorpe is just a repetitive tease: The message is not new; the subject matter is deliberately chosen to outrage. What a naughty boy you are, Bobby!
But the movie did start me thinking about the whole weird hierarchical system of social organization that makes up human culture, the result of some reconfigured primate behavioral instinct that’s not unlike pecking behaviors in chickens.
Maybe it had some utility back when hominids were living in caves.
But it only matters today because there is consensus that it matters.
It’s a collective delusion. Maya. The ignis fatuus hovering above the night marsh’s dark, still waters.
Clearly, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real just now.
All I can do is tell myself stories about what’s real.
Harvested another 20 pounds of tomatoes. (Tomatoes! The gift that goes on giving!) And a few more cucumbers. And a cantaloupe that was hiding under the dying cucumber vines and had turned a luscious golden color. And chili peppers! So many chili peppers. Chili peppers were the star of the garden this year, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with them all.
I took Art Photos. This is the only one that really came out:
Claude was puttering around, so we had a long chat about the proper way to grow tomatillos in the Northeast. The Northeast is not exactly what you would call tomatillo country.
Chatting about the proper way to grow tomatillos is about all I’m good for conversationally these days.
Dying X-husbands take a lot out of you.
###
Came home with Big Plans to cook a vat of tomato sauce and a few tomato pies to freeze for winter.
But I found I didn’t have the energy to do that either.
So instead I watched the movie Mapplethorpe.
I have this idea that I should like Robert Mapplethorpe.
Patti Smith’s boyfriend! Guerilla fighter in the war against photography’s bias toward the mundane!
But, in fact, I don’t like Robert Mapplethorpe.
The fisting photos, the pix of a long black cock dangling outside a pair of cheap trousers, the pissing in the champagne flute shots, those images actively repel me—not because they’re sexual, but because they’re objectifications taken to an almost ad absurdum level.
Thank you, yes, I got the objectification subtext when I first grokked Andy Warhol. Mapplethorpe is just a repetitive tease: The message is not new; the subject matter is deliberately chosen to outrage. What a naughty boy you are, Bobby!
But the movie did start me thinking about the whole weird hierarchical system of social organization that makes up human culture, the result of some reconfigured primate behavioral instinct that’s not unlike pecking behaviors in chickens.
Maybe it had some utility back when hominids were living in caves.
But it only matters today because there is consensus that it matters.
It’s a collective delusion. Maya. The ignis fatuus hovering above the night marsh’s dark, still waters.
Clearly, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real just now.
All I can do is tell myself stories about what’s real.
