Tag Archives: Descartes

graffiti

graffiti
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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.

 

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