now i know who did it. yesterday i didn't, and my response was a feeling i still feel. r. asked if i would feel differently knowing who did it. or i asked myself. and i do feel differently. it's another day, another layer. i like julie mehretu's work, but not this. this is embedded in a monument of specious appropriation by a self-serving oligarch masquerading as a civil rights hero, a charlatan salesman of the specious dream of democracy. her work is embedded in and now serving the monumental betrayal of the oligarchy. i'm in the wrong of course now but in the long arc of history he'll be finally regarded a just another caesar in the seemingly endless succession.