If 16th- and 17th-century European genre paintings could talk, what would they say today? How would they say it? How could they say it in a language everyday people would understand? And if a painting talks in a museum, do the other paintings hear it? And if the other paintings hear it, what do they say? And do sculptures hear it, too, or do they only hear their own kind? Now, at the present time, more than ever before the time just passed … hm hm hm time passages doo doo dee doo (Al Stewart) … art appreciation even in its basest form is most rudimentary, nay, necessary.

“Into the Vulgate” first appeared on Facebook in early November 2015.

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“Jesus, Allie. I’d be busting a gut right now if I had one.”

“What’s so funny, Missy?”

“Don’t you see it? You put the damn spire right between the Virgin Mary’s legs. You really should have run this one by me first before sending it all the way to fucking France.”

Allie hadn’t seen it until Missy pointed out the pointed spire’s placement, and it was far too late for her to do anything about it. She certainly hadn’t noticed it when she was putting the finishing touches on her design over a year ago. Neither had her Bible study friends, who had come up with the idea of submitting something to the project in the first place. They had told Allie that her design was a beautiful expression of her faith and of the Blessed Mother’s mercy for the obviously fashionable boneheaded worker who had nonchalantly discarded his partially smoked yet still smoking Gitanes while up in the rafters and famously set the roof on fire (they had actually used the Latin word, misericordia, because that’s the way they talked). In hindsight, she should have gotten a second opinion.

At least the archbishop appreciated her intentions. He congratulated her on her morbid wit (par for the course for a skeleton) and apologized for the delayed response in the margins of the official award letter. It all came down, he wrote, to the matter of the immense spire, which he sat on for a while before approving her honorable mention.

“Mr. Funny Bones Back to Skull” debuted on Facebook on September 7, 2017, at the height of the Russian election hacking scandal in the United States. In this digital comic strip, Mr. Funny Bones, Chip, Dale, and the author thought they were returning for a second season of bone-numbing comedy. They didn’t know at the time that the KGB would hijack the “Hanging with Mr. Funny Bones” (Season 1, September 2016) reboot for nefarious purposes.

Bienvenue à la fondrière de mon existence.

J’attends mon propre chef d’oeuvre. Je me casse la tête en essayant de retoucher mon caractère. J’essaie de camper mon personnage, mais c’est un livre épuisé. Je veux devenir un roman policier, mais je manque d’intrigue. Si j’étais dramaturge, je pourrais créer une pièce, la critique, et la bâcler sans inquiétude. Si j’étais un poète qui pouvait pondre de la poésie, je gagnerais le respect du monde entier.

Mais maintenant, je me moque du monde. J’embarrasse de questionner les pauvres passants qui font toujours le train-train le lundi matin. Je les trouve laids, et je me trouve mal. Ils ramassent des livres qu’ils ne comprendront jamais. Tout à coup, j’ai le désir brûlant de fermer les coffres noirs des bouquinistes sur leurs doigts. Je veux démolir tous les trésors du bourgeois ordinaire et, alors, prendre un café sans sucre et lire les journaux de la gauche aux prisonniers.

C’est le premier acte de ma représentation de la mort du païen. Après, je danserai parmi les marguerites et la menthe poivrée dans les champs. J’aiderai les spectateurs à louer leurs places en enfer. Le grand Satan me donnera un pourboire formidable. Tous mes admirateurs applaudiront mon grand succès en criant, “Bravo! Monsieur le chef de l’angoisse perpétuelle!”

Je ne suis pas du tout musicien. Je ne connais que les chansons du désespoir interminable. Je n’interprète aucun morceau de musique. Je joue uniquement du clavecin, et j’en joue bien. Je donne souvent des récitals pour mes mignons amis rouges. Ils aiment mieux que je fasse toutes les fausses notes. J’ai la plus grosse voix caverneuse du monde souterrain. Mes petits demons m’accompagnent au sacré concert.

J’aime mieux peindre à l’huile les natures mortes. Les servantes de Méduse preferent ma facture. Elles disent que ma facture est gauche. Je leur réponds “Merci. Allez-vous-en.” La fraude, la douleur, le mépris, l’avidité: Tous sont sur ma palette. Je peins à la misère toutes les pauvres âmes au côté d’ouest de New York. La toile—elle montre mon travail—elle est couverte de sang. Je suis l’incarnation du péché. Je suis le provocateur sacré du culte du diable. Je suis Beëlzebub.

Je suis la nourriture des despotes. Je me pavanerai aux plumes rouges et brillantes jusqu’à la fin du temps.

Simply amazing

the journey

from wanting to be loved

to wanting to be understood

to wanting to be respected

to not wanting anymore because it saps the life out of you.

And then you finally arrive at that midpoint

where you’ve always wanted to be

and all you can think about

is how it’s going to end.