My mother had a flat at the groc. A man offered to fix it. She gave him some money & drove to a tire store, where they told her it was a racket: they slash your tires & if you're elderly you're glad to pay them. Of course there's no security. Not in that neighborhood.

01 24/28 04

Why there are always more artists than anyone suspects. --The glow of the workroom dazzles; crowd posits a demiurge within. The only thing known about the gods is their name, that is, their aspert to mortals. So. The names of gods must be few, and their aspects simple, else it's no pantheon but an encyclopedia: and crowd forgets all! Some like it that way. But the ones that don't, don't either want to admit one new god to the pantheon. Because they already learned it one way. It's tidy and they're happy to keep the shelves dusted. For the shelf-dusters there are no demiurges or else so long gone they might as well hadn't been...
   Well, artists are people and people come in more names and aspects than any encyclopedia could ever hold. If you love artists you should say: Every one is a new eye in the world! Another relevation! We are that much closer to the dawn! ...but don't you sart loving Art more than artists, 'cause then it's the fewer the better, you want to save Art from all the artists......
Yes, and i would love the bad artists most; the better ones don't need it. Those who can'tor won't see straight, heir crookedness is part of world-texture. When i have my attacksof purism, it's really my own betrayals i am bemoaning and seeking to castigate. But how could i save art from the artist who is myself?

More from Stanyhurst's Aeneid:

"Wee leaue Creete country; and our sayls vnwrapped vphoysing,
With woodden vessel thee rough seas deepelye we furrowe.
When we fro land harbours too mayne seas gyddye dyd enter
Voyded of al coast sight with wild fluds roundly bebayed,
A watrye clowd gloomming, ful aboue mee clampred, apeered,
A sharp storme menacing, from sight beams soonnye reiecting:
Thee flaws with rumbling, thee wroght fluds angrye doe iumble:
Vp swel thee surges, in chauffe sea plasshye we tumble:
With the rayn, is daylight through darcknesse mostye bewrapped,
And thundring lightbolts from torneclowds fyrye be flasshing."