Back in the “three-two-one”
I am back home. The home, home. The place where I lived out my highschool years and where my parents still reside.
It is kind of boring, which is to be expected.
I am supposed to eventually take care of my younger, autistic brother in a deal struck with my parents, but there seems to be a legal battle going on.
It is a long story. The whole “my brother being a semi-ward of the state” thing calls for more organized thought than I am capable of right now.
I went to the Harn museum the other day and the day before that. Saw some Andy Warhol prints that he probably never even touched. Although I am not overly impressed by his Marilyn Monroe prints, I can admit that they would look nice on a living room wall, and so I covet them.
There was also a Monet landscape that I was underwhelmed by.
The ancient sculptures from Asia and Africa were my favorite things there. The big canoe drum was impressive.
One of the avant-garde films that the museum was hosting was kind of creepy. It had a film shot under a red filter of a guy with dreads floating face down in water. The screen was suspended over red dust with words traced out (something about blood flowing down a river) and spot-lighted by a rusty can light.