Portrait Of The Artist As An Old Man

Cornelius Licht, an old friend,

German, but his English is good,

lanky, thin, intense, weathered,

accomplished painter, like me

in Mexico a long time. He has

a girlfriend who’s crazy, (sound

familiar?), she reminds me of my

family. Men are stupid and women 

are crazy. She got him kicked out

of the place where he lived…I saw

him the other day. He looked like

usual, his intensity was the same.

He needed some money, I wanted

to help him but couldn’t right away.

I looked for him today, but he didn’t 

show up…he will when he’s desperate 

enough. Do good people suffer more

disproportionately? Everyman is subject

to the consequences of his deeds, his

karma if you like…there’s no profit in

complaining, howling at the moon.

Binary, duality, good and evil for

example…reality might as well could 

be a simulation, the fork in the road

put there by some cosmic being playing

its cosmic game…you could imagine 

the Homosap scurrying about on the

Big Board, entertainment for that

enormous entity until it’s time for bed.

There’s only so much we can know,

and, as quickly, we begin to forget

until who we are becomes irrelevant.

On our deathbed we say: “What was 

that?” The flowers at the funeral are

the punchline of the joke.

Still, I’d like to see him, help him if

I could…we’re all in this together,

those we love, those we hate, it doesn’t 

matter. All beings have been our mothers,

the Buddhists say, in endless eternity

recycled infinitely. That’s not a bad thing,

by the way, to believe, if belief is your thing.

Love is all you need is not a cliche.