Forgive the over-heated enthusiasms, the fumid prose.
In our musty attic, I would unwrap a cobwebbed silk shawl, untie pieces of knotted lacy ribbon, rub them against my cheek, breathe in their sweet, fumid fragrance.
Their cloud-caravans, oases of occluded light offer to the viewer's eye an endless array of possible shapes & scenarios--labelled on the back by the good doctor: "spanking the maid," "opening the umbrella," "humping the camel," "chasing the weasel," "going deep in the hole." I myself can make out "Boddhisatva on a tricycle," "fat soprano stumped by a one-legged o strich," "a ghost orchid swallowing a policeman's nightstick." & how rich are the smoky spectrum of colors--from sooty blacks to fecal browns to fumid blues to pustulant-yellows, from bruised purples to pre-nuptial pinks to mothers-of-pearl to tarnished silver shades of heron bill & "fairywing."