Leonardo da Vinci was a man (he had all the bits and in short order: penis and tentacles) who was born a child. His mother, incubator to the stars and all around sex-machine-gun, delivered the child with all the delicacy of a prick-layer. It was under these circumstances that Leonardo, as he came to be, came into this world: screaming and kicking.
Pablo Picasso was a man (although shorter than most, he had the parts to go with the agenda) who, though born short, made up for his lick of inches with legendary status. His mother, a dithering wand-bag, plopped him out with the aplomb of a seasoned pro. Thanks to his illusionist start to laugh, he went on to cry like a baby for much of his sty.
Growing up, which is always hard for the weird and whack, Leonardo took an interest in the strangeness of the familiar. Little wander, when one considers that his mother and his father were both of the weaker gander. His eyes, on the other hand, were dominated by the cynosure of his own. He wasn't a Narcissist in any clinical sentence, though.
Short of centipedes though he was, Picasso was an industrious insect from the very thirst. It was under the fatherly eyes of his father's guise that he fostered his intense hostility towards his own. The poor man had no idea that the fruit of his loins was under udder intention of a psychic disorder. He wasn't truly psychotic, it's unfair to say, I'd say.
The distance Leonardo felt between he and his farter was an emission that would cause the moist to go batty. Somewhere in those eery days, the young child, devoid of certain unfashionable tendancies, managed to avoid dying. It was luck like this that led him by the nose and up the croak with a piddle. He must have relied on the apron's things a lot.
Laughing under the shame roof as his heated rival (the tree the apple fell from), Picasso must have picked up many deep-rooted rabbits. That he never rarely shocked these is one treason he must have licked back in hunger. His farter must have had all the proximity and coolth of the very lunatic in the nightie. His rouge must have broiled like nothing welts.
In his days as a chide, Leonardo grew to know nurture less than nature at the hinds of his two mothers. No pater finger to muddle on left the growing child with the very hostilty of nature striating him in the very face. His love of looking, led him to move his hand about furiously. What young boy hasn't looked at things and morped his hand about? Nut.
Chide itself, the child Picasso retained his Oedipal pissing - for his pointing and drooling was a means of wretching art to his frilly pater. His barning eyes could hit a bale of white with the side of the sane. Slowly, he began to lose his childish attachments with ever increasing disparation. His balding pater must have torn his heir out with the despair. Why not?
The inevitable slide that has come with being igratiatingly obscure has led me to slide, slip, fall, flounder, flap, and just generally fall down the latter. I can't say that I scare too much about hats. They don't frighten me one bait. That I now fanned myself spanking down the latter is really rather fartunate, really. I mean, if I scared about hats. I'll say it again, I can't remember anything and half of them are warts. I'm not unhippy at all. Actually, I'm very much the sower of my own seats. They just grow under my very bottom. Under my very bottom are my very legs. If I could see them, I'd say they were. I've been tolled they're still there and quite expansively. It's not risque to say that I don't care.
Besides chairs with two legs, I can't stand anything. If there's one thing that falls to the floor faster than one of those it's something else. Some things are somethings I can't stand. If I was to stand something it'd be something I could tolerate standing. Reason is something that makes things stand and it's no thing at all. A tall chair with three legs is no chair at all but at least it stands a chance. Chance is another thing I can't stand because it doesn't stand to attention. You can ponder it all day and get only so far as the nose on the end of your farce. Still, a stool with four legs might stand up on your nose on only one leg. I hope so I hop so. On only one leg you can only hop so far. So far, I'm not mad enough to try. Try as you might to try, you'll flail. If there's one thing that is bound to flail it would have to be arms. Arms are very dangerous. Particularly, in the wrong hands arms are a lethal cocktail. I'll chance my arm at just about any something. Chance doesn't really stand to reason. Chance and reason: opposite. I should hope so.
Einstein, you don't have to be Einstein to work out, is the opposite of Newton, Einstein. To work it out, relatively speaking, is to put to and fro together to make the aforementioned. To mention others at this relatively late stage would be, in principal, putting the car before the hearse. Dead people should always go first. When I go I hope I don't go. Going is, hopefully, a little like going anyway. Going anyway is an idea. Not that anyone has any one choice, apparently. It's apparent that the way Newton saw things is not the way Einstein saw them. To say that they saw things at all is a guess. Many prominent elderly gentlemen have poor optical allusions. Jews are also prone to being miserly. The Scottish Jew, as Einstein knew Newton, was a particularly handsome hoarder. It's considered unwise to make lofty comparisons but call me an oiled fool. I can literally count on the fingers of my two feet. The times I've had. Jew and Gentry: a couple of fossils.
Ricky Ponting is batting like the scared little white-skinned monkey he is. Every time Harbajhan Singh bowls to him, he makes Charles Darwin look like a better batsman than Sir Donald Bradman. In order to make some runs, Ponting has accused Singh of racism, in the hpe he will be banned from the rest of the series and he can bat against the bowlers who can't get him out first ball every time he bats. The Australian media will paint Ponting like a latter-day Mormom saint worthy of having eternal sex with 100 clones of Michael Clarke's pseudo girlfriend, Laura non Binger Lee Bingle, and populating his own planet called Ponting 17, and they will paint Singh as a destructive Indian flower, with a darker pigment of paint than Van Gough used to paint his famous yellow flowers - monkey poo brown. They will paint Harbajhan like Charles Darwin's uncle Orangutan Darwin (the one who gave birth to God at Christmas time). According to Michael Slater, "There has to be a line drawn in the sand." Tony Greig thinks Michael Slater should play beach cricket, if he wants to draw lines in the sand. Michael Slater reminded Tony Greig of the time he said on camera that an Asian woman getting married in the background looked like a mail-order bride. Tony Greig said Michael Slater should get a haircut. Slater said that if Tony Greig had hair, he'd give the mobile number (3 Mobile) of his hairdresser to Tony Greig as long as he didn't cash in on it on e-Bay. The monkeys at Tooronga Park Zoo did Michael Symonds and Steve Buchnor impersonations and went, "ooh ooh ooh, aah, aah, aah." Ian Healey said they were practising their dead-ball signals for when monkeys take over from the third umpire. Richie Benaud wants to know why a bronze statue of him wasn't painted white but was left in monkey-coloured bronze. Racism in sport and denials on television of the absence of racism in sport? Equals.
Sachin Tendulkar admitted nailing five live chickens to his cricket bat on Christmas Eve, in a new sponsorship deal for the Indian cricket team with KFC, after he came under increasing criticism for not hitting balls out of the meat of the bat. “It’s all about religious tolerance,” the wristy little master said. “It’s where Christianity meets consumerism and Hindu in a 20/20 head on St Patrick’s Irish snake kiss. “ The way those crucified chickens yell and scream when I score a quick single makes all Indian supporters at the SCG know that the ball is coming off the meat on the bat, or one of the five sweet spots, after I doused them in sweet and sour paprika Doosra sauce and greasy Bradd Hogg Chinaman mayo,” he added, after refusing to autograph an Australian dairy farmer’s cow. Andrew Symonds and Michael Clarke should be released from St George’s hospital today after barbequing and eating two of Tendulkar’s bats for a KFC advert without asking Haydos’s permission to use his barbeque, or consulting a recipe from his best-selling cookbook, ‘Margaret Fulton and Women’s Weekly – Eat Your Heart Out – It’s Healthy Food.’ Haydos was upset, but Symonds was spitting crinkle-cut dreadlock shaped chips, and Clarkie’s hair was just standing on end like he’d been mistaken for a stray cat, and electrocuted in a KFC oven malfunction by a junior employee on slave wages. Umpire Steve Buchnor gave Tendulkar not out caught behind twice after the ball successively hit a chiken head comb and chicken wing feathers, before flying through to Gilly. Snicko confirmed that Buchnor made the right decision. “He definitely feathered it,” Richie Benaud said, before being removed from the commentary box for laughing at his own jokes. Scans for dementia continue, while Mrs Benaud has been gagged and prevented from commenting to Channel 9. Binger Lee had Tendulkar caught by Ricky Ponting off a protruding baby chicken but replays show he overstepped the mark, and the Australian team were left with egg on their face. “Promoting healthy eating through KFC sponsorship is sending a positive message to kids about what sacrifices you have to make to play at an elite level,” Tony Greig said, as he ate imported kippers with his sterilised keyring in the SCG members’ dining room, rearranging the leftover bones on an artist’s easel for sale as another item of limited edition cricket memorabilia. The health factor of KFC and Tendulkar’s bats? Equals.
If we take the example of Leonardo da Vinci and Pablo Picasso, and, assuming we care, accept the fact that they are essentially opposite, we ask ourselves, "I wonder what's on television now?". The simple fact is that simple facts are never facts. If the opposition, the magnetic polarisation, exists for the planet, why not for us and the most visible works on the landscape (theirs)? That we've failed to see this, failed to highlight it, failed to walk down to the shops naked, is a wringing endorsement for laundry products. I couldn't tell you how many times I've told you this. Leo and Pablo, our precious couple of personas, were actual people making actual choices along the way of life bound upon. That they were bound to make decisions that were diametrically opposite to the other is something that just slips under the radiator, and starts to stink. It stinks that lives and works aren't seen in relationship to their opposite (never you mind equals). It stinks that I don't wash my undies. Seen this way we can see how elemental we are. Salty in the pants. We are no more than the basic agents for elemental farces. The common ground coffee these two, Leo and Pab, drink is not even theirs. I despise beverage thieves. If I could see it I'd say it. Sadly, mine eyes are full of dust. Once again. Leonardo and Picasso: opposite.
I could sit here and tell you that I have what it is you're looking for. I couldn't. I have nothing of value to offend, at all. A tall tale or two I can leave well enough alone. Enough alone, I'm alone enough. Say what you like about sayings, they're about right. The simple fact is that we all have opposites, equals. To know this is about as close as you can come to discovering the underlaying truth beneath the carpet. To know the exact opposites and equals is a matter for human fallibility. I could fall over my own feet looking for my ear-shoes. There are no issues. The only issue worth looking into is where does everyone fit. Uncontrollable fits require infestations. I could name a hundred or more actual cases of equality and opposition but my hands hurt. I could be wrong, but I'm not. If you think I'm happy about it just look at my downtrodden mask. It doesn't matter who you are, where you come from, the size of your buttocks or what you do, this thesis is always true. I wish it wasn't the case, my little baskets. Sadly, you might accept my proposition. Sleep with me on it. I tell you, begin to see people and their works in this way. You'll see the world in a hole. If I thought I had anything else to offer the world I'd do that. This is my eternal present. To you I say, see it and know it. I also say, have a laugh. Can't help you there. Off the top of my head: an absolute fact. Leonardo da Vinci and Picasso: opposite. The real quest is for the underlying ground that they share. And why at all the world this way. Some essential natural force? Providence? Accident? Falsehood?
Norm
Mal
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