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Equal and Opposite - March 2008

Crevantes and Vermeer, this time it's for real

Vermeer, the painter and decorator of yesteryore, had in abundance many qualities similar, if not identical, if not exactly the same as Cervantes who, coincidentally, had many of the same quailities as his counterpart, Vermeer. That every field should throw up the same regurgitated characters is vomitous and flies in the face could only be warts. That Vermeer was a right pilferer of small onions which he pickled with relish. It is in small part due to the knuckle-heads of his time that he spent so much of his time in a ditch with a fucking spoon. And didn't the wife just love it. For Cervantes, who abhored onions as he relished pickles, collecting onions was just as fruitless. His work is typified by its similarity to that of Vermeer. I'm only guessing. That we still talk about their works eons on is a lesson to those of us who look on works of recent yore as singing. If I was more than guessing I could take you point by point through the similarities in their works. We're as hazy as one another. I'm afraid of spindlers and lighting. There's something in the basic humility of their works that speaks to meanies. It says, Vermeer and Cervantes: equal.



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Victor Hugo and Eugene Delacroix, bath takers

There's hardly any doubt in my minefield that Victor "The Rummaging Rummy" Hugo and Eugene "The Sacred Cowboy" Delacroix are in cahoots in an illegal operation that sees pharmaceutical companies deny pot-heads the right to smoke themselves silty. To put it another way: they're, relatively speaking, equal. It really is one of wife's little mysteries that these two are as they are and could never be other. Was it that they were born so, and being born contain nothing but what the world is also made of, or were they made so? It's another of life's little luxuries that I can bathe in my own filth and yet walk away smelling like noses. It could be argued that everything is in place from the moment the world came to be and that all the world's people are like flailing dominoes; falling, who knows wears. It could be, it could definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, be. That we are free agents, operating freely as agents for the free, is an argument I freely admit is failing freely. That we, some, hold this to be is no less a faulty domino than any other thought we might hold to be our own in our own private recesses. It's true, Hugo and Delacroix: equal.
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El Greco and Dali, up close and impersonal

In what manner, in a manner of speaking, are El Greco and Dali opposite, I hear myself ask. Like some strange and familial part of a car the answers are manifold. Let us, like a seamstress with a habit, pick them apart like a seamstress with a pet vulture. Firstly, let us say that both maniacs took many liberties with many things; which doesn't spit well with me - not one little tit. El Greco, the Spaniard, went to great lengths to take the image of the human form to great lengths when he went to the shops with all manner arms, spasms, defects, cats, piss-buckets, warts and money-wads. If form is opposite to content, and I'm hardly unconvinced it isn't or couldn't be or wouldn't be or was but now isn't or will be or never will be, then the lengths Dali took with content is cause for consternation in even the most cautious of cat-cuddlers, donkey-droppers, flea-scratchers, spine-tinglers and pastry-farters. So, as I have clearly and evidently documented in this document, herein when we talk of El Greco, and we do most frequently and with such lavish cutlery, we will remember what's-his-name. For the two are as opposite as two things ever were or ever could be or ever were.
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Rabelais and El Greco, an equality

If there's one thing I won't take lying down it would have to be a shower. I simply won't just sit there and take it. If I did, I'd say that I much prefer baths to showers. The beauty of a bath, apart from the way the Turks take them, is that there's never any danger of dropping the slippery-scented bar of animal fat. Barring that, there's always the joy of soaking in your own snake-sauce that some seem to see as so much satisfaction. People of all walks of death will eventually come to rest horizontally. Being perpendicular to the ground is no way to take a bath. Sitting down in the shower is just as erroneous. On the condition that you keep it to yourself, I'll tell you how you can tell a Wella woman. It's by the way she wears down her hair until she's as bold as a liar. Lying in the shower and standing in the bath, fun; Rabelais and El Greco: equal.
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Things can be hard, I find

If there's one thing I can't take it's things that don't belong to me. Things that others own I just can't have. If, in a perfect world, there were no possessions then I wouldn't have to worry about what others have. I can't have what I don't. Even less than any of this I can't take things that belong to me. I can't take what I aready have. I could take them if I was going somewhere. Unfortunately, I never go anywhere. If I was going somewhere I might find the things I own easy to take. Especially if they were mine. If I was going away for a long time I might find it easier to take the possessions of others. As it is, I'm going nowhere and as such I can't. If I could I would. That we are arrogant enough to think ourselves outside of nature and not just a part of it is part of why I find things so difficult. I find things so hard because I have tried to take them and couldn't. Finding things easy and finding them hard to take are two separate things in delicate balance, opposite. I find that finding things easy is fine if you're fine with that, but if you're not then it can be as hard to take a thing as any. Taking things that are hard to take is a given for those that find taking things easy. Anyone who can take anything that is not easy to take is not easy to take if you find taking things hard. Don't take it hard if you find things hard. Get some spectacles. Nothing puts things in a different light like a pair of enormous bubbly jugs.
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