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Down in the Dirt, v196 (the 6/22 Issue)



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ABD Field Trip

Ron Roman

... a snowy tableau. Distant. Dripping off a Thomas Kinkade canvas? Hmm....
What does she mean, Harry?
Ugh....

Streams of Endless Time. The phantasmagorical embodied in the consciousness of female desire, she intones. But Painter of Light? I think not, she snickers. An artistic feminine derivative of Levitan himself? Seminal landscape painter of the feminine divine? Perhaps. Intimations of Over the Eternal Peace? Hmm....

All in attendance gather, huddle around the marbled portico. Light streaming in through stained-glass windows. Necks crane. Speak! Speak, O Enlightened One. For what do we mere fishmongering students know of your arcane aesthetic, your wondrous ways, your artistic depth.

Look there! Steeple slicing the sky and thus vicariously our collective psyche? Is it dusk or dawn? Jacaranda or tree unbeknownst thrust into the ethereal landscape of our eternal consciousness? Crow or pigeon micturating on Saint Paul’s sexist hand? And what of the flowing pastoral brook, churning to the last bastions of human memory? In non-rectilinear fashion, that. Quintessence of rusticity? Or rustication of quintessence? No Thomas Kinkade kitsch, this, eh? she brays, lording over the gathered minions athirst for Knowledge. Ars longa, vita brevis for ars est celare artem. Hmm....

Yes! Yes! Teach us, O Profound One, so eager are we to partake in the Wondrous Knowledge of Academe. What does it signify, O Wondrous One? The signifier vis-à-vis the signified? Derrida what, you say? In misplaced honored tradition of the [W]estern canon. Of hallowed sheepskin....

What does it mean, Leroy?
Dudn’t know about the Latin, but the English dudn’t mean sh*t.



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