Today has been a poem. I am a poem, when left to my currents & ways. I bought soup and medicine for Jeff. Hung Chagall posters in my closet. Had a long talk with Jim, where the last of the Leonid stuff finally clicked. A movie. White sky, rain. Green beans and tofu. A mocha.
I am on vacation this week & next. Not traveling, just clearing my psyche. A private walkabout.
The younger guy in Three Burials moved like a song -- like a longing, a tension, an asymptotic drive for perfection. A face like Caravaggio, Anna once wrote. Only bodies in incredible shape move like this. Oxygen and sinew. I could write poems to the canyons of his stomach.
I was aware of him the entire movie. Stunningly male. His body moving as a piece. I always knew where his abs were.
It is my own body I hear in his.
When Jeff moved in, I had the upstairs bedroom and he had the small room below it. Now he has moved to the glass room and I have moved down to the small room. No one lives upstairs, which is becoming a sitting room. After I get up, Jeff opens the door to my room while he showers. The house is becoming supple, fluid.
Tomorrow I paint with Wes. I have been dreaming about paintings. In every painting I look at, I see its hidden paintings, and I see the paintings I would make of it.
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