Archive for September 3rd, 2018

Place: Brooklyn Bridge,
A man was ready to jump off the bridge. A Good Samaritan appears at that precise moment coaxing the unfortunate man to return to the living. He spoke eloquently and convincingly why he should live than give it up because of a black mood. The man at last agreed and waited. There was an audible click. It made the man perk up. He said, “My spell of black despair is gone.” Gathering himself together he chatted so glibly and convincingly why he should forgo the pleasure of owning the bridge. “If I can’t do as I please in my own property, I shall get rid of it.”
Boy oh boy was the good Samaritan pleased?” Under the spell of a man who was behaving as though he had downed a mood-elevating bumper his gestures were expansive as were his persuasive powers. GS could not but watch him with eyes as big as marbles. So he bought the bridge instantly. It was a proper transaction and the GS took over his new acquisition.
Years Later:
The same bridge and the same man but much the worse for wear. Who does he see but Good Samaritan who had just come from the Bahamas. The sorry remains of the man cast his eyes down but the Good Samaritan slapped him heartily and said, “You are not going to buy the bridge off me. Are you?”
The fellow said, “Oh no!”
GS said without a change of expression, “No bad feelings. We can talk freely now. I am retired from the Government service and you know 30 years holding the bridge in top condition can break a man. ” After I pause he added, “I could not care less if the bridge would be sold for a scrap.” He was about to turn but stopped to hear a loud click. The man said rather cheerily, “That reminds me I owed you thanks. ” He bowed his head and walked off.


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I am Seeing Eye an Ambassador-at-large. No big deal, I tell you. The Big Spirit sent me as with Appetite, another spirit,- you don’t see him unless you are spreading a feast. Over there you shall see my comrade who cannot get enough of anything to be heard. While man over there is blowing the thigh bone of an antelope, he is all shook up, But I am on my way to check out the caves in Dordogne France. For me art of man is a big deal. I almost wished I could have been a man for Lascaux was beyond belief. Ever since it is writ large across my Spirit world.
I watched this statue in marble, by Phidias and the Parthenon,- and I will be blowed if ever I could chisel my way around a block of stone. What beauty! what elan! I almost cried for vexation. Only if I were a man! Many of my fellow-spirits tried to say the carnage at Marathon, Salamis, burning of Persepolis was an error in judgment. Oh no the seeing eye shall not feel a thing except a work of art. It must come from somewhere, O man, you be godlike,- sacking of Rome or Constantinople is child’s play. But tell me, where have you hidden the key to your art? There is the village of Guernica and airmen like swarms of gnats go to it,-it is being pulverized! It is a sight, I admit. But Picasso,- but I don’t know the fellow, his canvass almost made my gorge rise. His rage almost became mine. Impossible I cannot feel but with my eye, -even with smoke and ashes flying around. I feel my eye smarting but where is art! it shall salve my eye. I shall not complain.
Ah now I see the entire earth going up in smoke. One big conflagration and nothing but tongues of fire,- united colors of Benetton as the fella said, white heat blue orange palette of floating tints surfing the shock waves again and again. No masterpiece more worthy of man I suppose I shall ever see. What the hell I just witnessed his art.

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