with caprice

cleanse myself with vitamin health but I'm already gone

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all, I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s — my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.

Danse Macabre (1922), dir. Dudley Murphy

"She is shy and witty, she is nobody’s fool, she is a brilliant actress, she is beautiful beyond the dreams of pornography, she can be arrogant and willful, she is clement and loving, Dulcis Imperatrix, she is Sunday’s child, she can tolerate my impossibilities and my drunkenness, she is an ache in the stomach when I am away from her, and she loves me!”

“Dude, if I was there and remembered it, then I wasn’t really there, man.”
Joel Gion

This is probably my most favorite picture of Mac.
Color amounts to crime. Derived from the Latin celare, to conceal, color is another word for deceit, says my Webster’s. Benjamin agreed. Sharply distinguishing the child’s view of color from the adult’s, he suggested that adults understood color as a layer superimposed on matter to such a degree that they regard color “as a deceptive cloak.”

How strange, therefore, that my dictionary goes on to say that color also signifies authenticity or at least character and nature, as in the phrase, “he showed us his true colors.” Could this amount to what Benjamin thought of as the child’s view of color? Yet the dichotomy of child versus adult, deceit versus authenticity, unwinds itself and leaves us in a no-space that is, perhaps, the truer home of color, for does not the very phrase, “he showed us his true colors,” venerable with age and usage, also suggest the opposite, that color is both true and untrue precisely because of its claims to authenticity? How can you ever be sure with which variety you are dealing, his true colors or his false ones? Is this why we in the West are drawn to color yet made uneasy, even repelled, as by Mafia types in Hawaiian shirts? Who of you reading this text would even dream of painting the living room wall bright red or green, any color other than off-white? Then, safe in your whiteness, you can hang a wildly colored picture on the wall, secure in its framed being.