DA
      IN
      FLORIDA
     
     
      (Salvador
      Dali
      Museum,
      Florida)
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      could
      swim
      in
      this
      light
      ~
     
    

    
     
      forever,
      the
      blown-glass
      sky
     
    

    
     
      and
      mother-of-pearl
      water
      of
     
    

    
     
      St.
      Petersburg
      harbour.
      Too
      little
      breeze
     
     
      for
      Christopher
      Colombus
      to
      come
      ashore
      |
     
     
      with
      his
      shipment
      of
      crosses,
     
    

    
     
      banners
      and
      armour
      for
      the
      sprawling
     
     
      malls;
      so
      his
      descendants’
      armada
      of
     
     
      yachts
      loll
      and
      quiver
     
    

    
     
      in
      their
      impressionist
      moorage.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      What
      in
      heaven’s
      name
      are
      Salvador
      and
      I
     
     
      doing
      here?
      Florida
      the
      bad
      taste
     
    

    
     
      haven
      for
      Canadians
      whose
      clocks
      have
     
     
      frozen
      and
      need
      melting.
      True,
      roseate
     
     
      spoonbills
      prowl
      the
      marsh,
      a
      long
      tail
     
    

    
     
      of
      seashore
      flicks
      behind
      the
      dragon
      :
     
     
      fire
      at
      Cape
      Canaveral,
      an
      asphalt
      tongue
     
     
      licks
      the
      Keys,
      along
      which
      our
      rental
     
    

    
     
      car
      pitches
      its
      voice,
      chord
      modulations
     
     
      so
      far
      out
      on
      the
      ocean
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      can
      see
      the
      Christ
      of
      St.
      John
      of
     
    

    
     
      the
      Cross
      towering
     
    

    
     
      forward
      from
      Salvador’s
      old
      world
     
    

    
     
      crisis
      of
      faith
      to
      his
      well-healed
     
    

    
     
      Florida
      patron
      and
      museum
      home.
      At
      a
      loss
     
     
      for
      reasons
      for
      being
     
    

    
     
      here,
      besides:
      cheap
     
    

    
     
      vacation
      and
      my
      wife’s
      yearning
     
    

    
     
      to
      blend
      her
      childhood
      and
      my
      young
      stoned
     
     
      adult
      memories
      of
      the
      Magic
      Kingdom.
     
     
      How
      her
      father
      said
      he
      wanted
      to
      return
     
    
   
   
    
     
      as
      a
      pelican
      on
      a
      wharf
      post.
     
     
      How
      I
      became,
      behind
      the
      wheel
     
     
      the
      inimitable
      Toad,
      oblivious
      to
     
     
      commodification:
      the
      dominant
      theme
     
     
      parks
      we’ve
      escaped
      from
      into
      this
     
    

    
     
      -
      motif
      museum,
      the
      glare
      from
      Dali’s
      barren
     
     
      landscapes,
      pinging
      off
      a
      cranial
      harp,
     
     
      an
      autosodomized
      virgin,
     
     
      clipping
      his
      father’s
      Freudian
      beard,
     
     
      disintegrating
      memory.
     
     
      I
      have
      never
      been
      attracted
      to
      his
      carnival
     
     
      of
      atonement
      before,
      but
      now
     
     
      my
      wife,
      seduced,
      stands
      behind
     
     
      Dali’s
      wife,
      who
      leans
      out
      their
      villa
     
     
      window
      overlooking
      the
      water,
      a
      sailboat
     
    
   
   
    
     
      in
      the
      distance,
      Gala’s
      back
      to
      her
      husband’s
     
    

    
     
      brushes
      and
      canvas;
      the
      landscape
      beyond
     
    

    
     
      could
      be
      Florida,
      but
      the
      light
     
    

    
     
      emanates
      from
      Gala’s
      blouse
      and
      skirt,
     
    

    
     
      the
      ripe
      aplomb
      of
      a
      woman
      who
      knows
      other
      women
     
     
      will
      unenviously
      adore
      her
      in
      the
      presence
      of
     
    

    
     
      their
      dumbstruck
      and
      delirious
      men.
     
    

    
     
      This
      painting
      is
      old-fashioned,
      pastoral,
     
    

    
     
      tender,
      serene.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      rest
      is
      cannibalism,
      apotheosis,
     
     
      extravagance
      for
      posterity,
      conquistadores
     
    
   
   
    
     
      -
      lunging
      ashore
      to
      convert
     
    
   
   
    
     
      their
      caravels
      into
      carparks
     
    

    
     
      centuries
      hence,
      Christ
      staring
      down
     
    

    
     
      from
      the
      cross
      at
      golfshirts
      and
      Wonder
      bras.
     
     
      Some
      epiphanies
      epoxy
      you
     
    

    
     
      on
      the
      spot,
      you
      can’t
      move
      and
     
    

    
     
      you
      know
      there’s
      another
      stained
     
    

    
     
      glass
      window
      framed
      in
      the
      walls
     
    

    
     
      through
      which
      you
      gawk
      at
      the
      world
     
    
   
   
    
     
      and
      which
      rainbows
      your
      room
      with
      revelations.
     
     
      Not
      the
      presence
      of
      Dali
      in
      Florida:
     
    

    
     
      startling,
      at
      first,
      but
      just
      another
      conquest
     
    

    
     
      of
      the
      irrational,
      no
      more
      surreal
      than
     
    

    
     
      Pirates
      of
      the
      Caribbean,
      Gater
      Bowls,
     
    

    
     
      and
      weapon-in-the-glove-compartment
      paranoia.
     
     
      But
      outside
      the
      museum.
      I
      know
      young
      Salvador
     
     
      painted
      this
      harbour,
      in
      The
      Tower
      Mill
      studio
     
     
      Ramon
      Pitchot
      provided,
      before
      the
      break
     
    

    
     
      with
      his
      father,
      the
      Church,
      the
      softer
     
     
      impressions
      of
      forerunners
      who
      saw
      too
      much
     
    
   
   
    
     
      in
      pastel
      waters,
      hazy
      bathers,
      shimmering
     
     
      smokey
      afternoons,
      commerce
      distanced
      and
     
     
      stilled.
      Before
      all
      the
      amputated
     
    

    
     
      symbols,
      and
      before
      God
      the
      prosthetic.
     
    

    
     
      I
      am
      brushstrokes
      on
      this
      canvas,
     
    

    
     
      my
      back
      to
      my
      wife.
      Bemused
      to
      be
      so
     
     
      placid
      in
      this
      milky
      affluent
      sublime,
     
     
      gazing
      at
      tax
      shelters,
      and
      photographed
     
     
      beside
      his
      monied
      benefactors’
      monument
     
     
      to
      a
      fountain
      of
      eternal
      enigmas
     
    

    
     
      of
      flamboyant
      desire.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Richard
      Lemm