The cat is green. The granddaughter is the first child far and wide. Photo: BM. The man next to her β her husband and my grandfather β died today too, on her birthday, which is why after that she never celebrated it. She celebrated daily though, life, love, little things, tender mercies. This one is for her generation. It will never return, yet it will never grow old either.
And this is me channelling her with the view of her bridge over the Drava river in Maribor from her window. There are so many moments I could share that would shed light on why I love you. Let me at least attempt to count the ways. Not us! God forbid. Just a design saved long ago. Van Gogh, not just some guy over there but one who at your age was reading books by Emile Zola was versed in Shakespeare was versed in Dickens while you read DVD Recorder manuals.
Him, London, Paris, Anverse, you, megastore, hyper, multiplex. Him, far away but he knows all about his brother Teo you, living with your brother but you know nothing about him. Him, on foot in the fields, stimulated you, closed inside a room with cramps on a treadmill. Beh , already at the first glimpse, my dear boy, you ought to agree thatβ¦.
Van Gogh when he was sixteen, he was visiting art collections you, at sixteen, collect Yugioh cards. Him, at twenty, in the Louvre salon and you, in the SUV salon losing everything but your shirt. Him, oils on canvas, creating paintings you, oil on muscles, body-building contests. Him, countrywomen, models, and prostitutes you spend your nights in the bed with your laptop.
Him, euphoric at having met Gauguin you euphoric at having snorted cocaine. You vandalize everything when your team scores you stand in line to buy a smartphone. Ok, Van Gogh was eating paints out of tubes and other absurd things, probably less toxic than your cheeseburger.
