The real ones. The backwards ones. I buried them. All over. That’s the secret. From Yellow Gap Trail in Pisgah National Forest to Abiquiu, New Mexico, I buried my notebooks.
“…train hoppers live a life of laggardly disorientation. They even have their own term for this life: the drift.”
And for a little while I held onto my weird bond with the dead artist. But – (shockingly) – it turns out leaning on Leonardo DaVinci for reassurance of how totally and completely not-weird I was, was a terrifically bad strategy. And before long the instinctive childlike kinship I initially felt with Leonardo was a source of confusion and something almost approaching self-scolding in and of itself. Because only DaVinci is DaVinci.
Until the House website recovers from its pancaked position, here’s “the memo” in jpg version. For what it’s worth.
When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen’s off with her head
Remember what the dormouse said