Ted and Al’s Winter Adventure

The drawing is of my back yard in Winter. It’s the season one merely tries to survive. Spring is hope, Summer is growth, Autumn is humility, if you care. The picture in a picture is of Autumn which is the official season of melancholia, but for me its attributes linger through winter like a cold. I really saw a 6-point buck and two does last month, right there where you see the painting of [t]he hollow men…the stuffed men.’ (T. S. Eliot, ‘The Hollow Men,’ further quotes as well)

Both the empty suits and the trophy rack –pun intended– are hollow and stuffed. They, men and women, mixed together,  are the naked (animal) lust for the clothes of (cultural/social) power. Imagine them ‘[b]etween the desire and the spasm,’ feeling the addictive jouissance (not plaisir) as they try to become the alpha creatures of our species.

Durer’s muse in Melencolia I, her ‘[e]yes I dare not meet in dreams,’ has become a sad-house wife. Her wings are trimmed, she is as hollow like the over-mortgaged houses in the distant subdivision, she sits among. Yet she’s stuffed, too. She’s full of something that is nothing. she, like the rest of us, is getting by on an illusion. Mine is art, what is your’s? Fido and putto have found warmer places to be. And all the tools buried by snow, useless till not-so-cruel April. The altar-like solid is all we see, with its hollow man’s tie–blood red which was last year’s power color– a symbol of sacrifice and submission

In Durer’s time, the late medieval/early renaissance, melancholia was beginning to be thought of as not the worst of the humors . The avante garde thinking was that it could, by it’s symptoms, be the melancholic’s focusing on what is really is really important. The ignoring life’s day to day troubles –and sad to say, joys–the dis-ease, not disease, was thought to be a way to self-improvement.

Today, the suffering artist with his muse is no more. 20th century philosophy/poetry, not to mention a couple nasty wars, took care of them. Melencolia (sic) now is called depression and we all have it. It’s just a cash cow for big-pharm. They supply drugs –a pipe dream that the world is OK– for the addiction that they don’t want to cure. Which is easier to profit from? And what else counts? Making the world a good place or hiding the fact that it isn’t. How different are the corporations from the cartels? You tell me.

I feel better now.

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