eating an

apple

 

is

like

the

genius

of

sergio

leone.

sure,

it’s

entertain-

ing, but

you

infer

the

meaning,

and if

you

grow

as a

person,

well,

that’s

on

you

too.

for me,

seeing

a

fistful

of

dollars

for the

first

time

is

like

learning

how to

read,

when

the

letters

become

words

and the

words

make

sense

on

the

page

in

the

order

they’re

in. like

the

odds

are

still

against

me, but

marisol-

‘s heart

belongs

to her

husband,

in spite

of

ramón’s

hands.

poor

little

jesus,

caught

in the

middle.

they say

he is a

man

with

no

name,

but

piripero,

the

grave-

digger,

calls

him

joe. so

what-

ever

that is

suppo-

sed to

mean,

it does.

unobtr-

usive

art

tends

to

make

me

think

the

most.

like

the

word

fragile

printed

on a

box in

the

mail or 

the

blood

song

sung

in

your

veins.

being

subtle

in a

blunt

world

is

truly

mirac-

ulous,

down-

right

holy.

the

hero’-

s jou-

rney

is

about

rede-

mptio-

n.

prim-

ordial

screa-

ming

puttin-

g mo-

dern

times

into

pers-

pecti-

ve.

now

the

past,

if you

dig it.

in the

end,

it

don’t

matter

if you

know

joe’s

name, 

the

boot

prints

are

made

in the

sand,

like

ice in

the

ocean

, exor-

cisms,

and

dodo

birds,

life

insur-

ance,

christ-

mas

lights,

pacif-

iers,

coffe-

e and

cigar-

ettes,

polar

bears,

the

italian

wild

west,

wisd-

om,

and

joy

divisi-

on,

sartre

refus-

ing

the

nobel

prize.