Some days are better than others. It's been a week, maybe, and I'm still in recovery from receiving the first edition of the new, pared-down New York Times. Although I remain angry that they didn't cover the Big Rupert story to my satisfaction, they remain, after all, The Times. The paper for whom my Grandfather covered Amelia Earhart's landing in Ireland. The paper that called my Grasso portrait "arresting." Most days my heart soars like an eagle. And my blood runs black with newspaper ink. But these days...
Do you remember the line from The Godfather when Don Corleone says to the undertaker:
Look how the massacred my boy...Between you and me, I thought it was "Look what they done to my boy...", but wiser heads suggest I am mistaken.
Anyway, lately I've taken to standing outside my door, in the middle of 7th Street, staring up at the clouds, arms aloft, holding my copy of The Times like Kunte Kinte holding his baby to the skies, crying to God (I suppose) in Heaven (I suppose):
Look what they done to my boy...I'm sticking to my fucking guns. They massacred him. If I wanted to read the New York Observer, I'd read the Observer. If you get my drift.
The larger question--because there always is one--is how can a God who's both omnipotent and benevolent allow them to do what they did to my favorite newspaper? To suggest that I'm utterly devastated is to understate the issue by a fair margin.
I'm too upset to be allowed near canvas so tomorrow I paint my apartment.