from dementia to rain

Here in NYC the rain envelopes in a cold, frazzled sheet. Somewhere outside a bird insists on insisting. Consider the mind in the midst of dementia: wherein the simplest violent move on TV, even in the context of slapstick, convinces one that murder is eminent, probably one's own. And then think of being on the outside of that construct, but attempting to empathize within it. Probably why I'm so flat lined this week.
Of course there is a solution. Make another painting. Have a Francis Bacon kind of optimism based on nothing but the sheer nowness of things. Alive now=cheerful. From the man of mouths comes that bit of buoyant wisdom.
New Olympic sport: run, leap, image
ha