No. 176: Onward and Upward His complaints about the exhausted, detumescent feelings visited upon him by his big white painting on cardboard were mollified somewhat by a cheerful message from an antiques dealer he knew. "Why don't you just turn the painting upside down," suggested his waggish dealer friend. "That will perk things up!" So he did. And now the painting seemed as strong, as vigorous, as full of aspiration as he had originally wanted it to be. He decided to invite Abigail, his next-door landscape painter, to come and see it. "Well," said the always judicious Abigail, "that's more like it!" "More like what?" he asked her. Abigail blushed slightly. "More like you," she told him.

No. 175. Detumescence. He was very tired. He decided to go back to painting again. He wanted to make something clean and clear, so he painted a white, two-element configuration (in house paint) on a huge sheet of corrugated cardboard--his favourite support for painting. It was only when he was almost finished that he realized his picture looked a bit detumescent. In fact it seemed as weary as he was.

No.174. Crown Victoria. H e felt he had worked hard enough and long enough to finally buy himself the car he had wanted since he was fifteen years old: a 1955 Ford Fairlane Crown Victoria--the one with the green plexiglass roof arcing over the driver's seat. As a kid, he used to haunt the new car showrooms and sometimes felt emboldened enough to climb behind the wheel of these brand new cars and sit there in fantasy-filled splendour. Sitting in a 55 Crown Victoria was as voluptuous as frolicking in a jade-green swimming pool with Esther Williams. The Crown Victoria was all light inside. The green of the half-roof bathed you in soft emerald joy. The wraparound windshield--which had been introduced that year, in 1955--left you floating about in industrial dazzle. Even the big half-wheel speedometer was bathed, in the daytime, in natural light, the back part of the housing having been replaced by another curved plastic panel--so the sun streamed warmly and wantonly into the instrument panel. It was mechano-ecstasy.

Ni. 173. The Night Watch. His despising of flimsy time and its meager passing had now refocussed on a loathing for timepieces in general--especially wristwatches. To that end--and he was aware of how perverse this was--he had begun collecting the most horrible, ugly wristwatches he could find. He cherished their awfulness. He ordered this one online from China. It had cost one dollar--with free shipping.