We go for a walk with my Dad on our visit. My Mom stays in the car, reads.
We climb a hill to a plateau where someone has built handrails. Someone else – more than one person, maybe – has done some artwork.
Is the artist disturbing it already? Or as a written act, does it go unspoken? We read it aloud.
We all giggle. I most like the small, inadequate Tyrannosaurus Rex-like arms. Useless, flailing. He is an angry penis.
My dad takes a break and we continue up the hill, talking about Descartes, about thinking before being, about graffiti and then some more reflections on the angry penis.