Tuesday, October 7, 2014

IN SEARCH OF SANDIER PASTURES


Even sex among the great unwashed is a noiseless evasion. The sublime tantric truths of slow time - those subtle skills elongated by the music of the muscles and paced by the calm atavistic winds of antiquity - are lost arts to our hyper-interconnected slaves of efficiency and speed.

My good friend Currado Malaspina has his own private cross to bear. His work is seen by some as the bumbling fantasies of an impotent imposter. His crude canticles to the pleasures of the flesh seem more like idle boasts than bonnes idées.

Currado Malaspina 2014

As is well known, Currado's mid-career has been a chaste chase after feral sex and puppy love. His various misadventures have all been duly chronicled both in the tabloids and in his work. His disappointments, though far from catastrophic, have etched their aftermaths into the creases of his damaged dharma.

My impression is that at this point Currado would even settle for the American form of transactional lovemaking though he has spent a lifetime inveighing against it.



So while he juggles his concupiscence with his ponderous self-pity an aching heart weighs heavily upon his will and on his work. 

He may be happier here in southern California where the sun shows no mercy and the sea is an ocean of possibility.



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