The pictures are starting to come in from Monday. They’re giving me the idea that maybe it’s okay to wear shorter skirts, but certainly not anything like the one I borrowed off Jenn. Black hooker chic, that one is. I think I’ll stick to me own aesthetic. This Saturday SinCity is her Stagette. If there’s a month to come out, this will be it. Arrive before ten. Should be serious fun, though I suspect that the girls will be tailing me, not knowing what to do.
Dreaming time, sweeping wide angle image of youth moments. I’m finally reading Cages by Dave McKean, the book Michel sent me. I’ve never read anything like it. I think the next time anyone uses the word ratatouille in my presence, I’m going to burst out laughing. It makes me grin until I notice my cheeks are cracking. The artistry is obscene, the lines and swirls of carved figures creating life from simple strokes of a pen, a pencil. I’m in awe of it while it makes me laugh. This is a little what love feels like, I think, without the fervour. There’s no involving passion, but so much appreciation.
Tomorrow I’m to meet Matthew at the Elbow Room for a 6 a.m. breakfast. I suspect I might simply stay up the night. He put me to bed last night with few hours before dawn, I could do it. I’m recovered from my earlier the-sound-ice-makes crush of souls skin. I’m free again to be brave. Anne Sexton has left the building. The word discretion doesn’t belong properly with the word partnership, so I’ll leave it at lover and dance with the word melting on my tongue and let it be enough for me.