The world is boiling. With its dicks and cunts and assholes. And then there are the flowers. They’re struggling to grow through the pavement. Grasping for air and pearls of rain. Then there are the gods … Kurt Cobain was killed by silence. John Lennon was killed by a loner. The free birds were killed in a plane crash. Our daughters are looking for fathers in the darkest corners. The mothers are binging Chardonnay in the suburbs. The fathers have gone mad. And here I am. A drunkard in a torched world.
In the sad outcome that you didn’t read Part 1 of the short story, you can find it here.
Freud was high on cocaine. Nixon was high on power. I know, who’d I prefer to flush down margaritas with in a wooden boat somewhere near the pacific.
I was somewhere between the edge of the coast and the border of the city when the paintings started to boil. We were messing it up in summer retreat up north. The prestige of the location mimicked the preferred yuppie exile in the Hamptons. In this case, this retreat was the preferred choice for organic hippies and dorm-room romantics.