Staffrider Vol.3 No.4 Dec-Jan 1980 - DISA

get it right; it eluded him. He forced hismind back to the painting each time hefound it, drinking a bottle of kachasuor undressing a woman or telling somevote-monger for some political party togo to hell. He gritted his teeth andbrought it back when he found it,wandering in some overseas citieshe didn't know, telling the native whitesthat he didn't need their help whilewishing they would buy up all hispaintings.All through the remaining hours ofthat afternoon until duskfall he foughthard to clear the crowds off the avenuesof his mind, trying hard to leave itdeserted, empty, so that whateverwould finally come would not be of hisown making. It was hard, but when hewent to bed at eight, after turning thepainting to the wall, he knew it was halfcomplete and the tears that filled hiseyes were not for anything that hedesired in life nor of anything that heregretted. •DearMadamContinued from page 12mon the one hand, or sloganizing on heother.IA STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY l? 81