Evenings of Certain Lives

I You don’t need always to be scrubbing the tiles, Hendrickje, my eye drinks itself, drinks itself to death— but other drink is in short supply— the little Buddha there, Chinese grove god in exchange for a ladleful of Hulstkamp, please! Never painted anything in frost-white or ice-skater blue or that Irish green in which the purple shimmers through— always my own monotone, my compulsion to shadows— not pleasant to pursue that path so clearly. Greatness—where? I pick up the slate-pencil and certain things appear on paper or canvas or whatever the heck else— result: Buddha bronze hocked for booze— but I draw the line at homage under ornamental plants, banquet of the painters’ guild— something for the boardroom! ...Creaking, little sheep squeaking, chromotypes Flemish, Rubensish— for the grandchildren (same idiots!) Ah—Hulstkamp, hits the spot, midpoint of colors, my shadow brown, stubble aura around heart and eye— II