The only thing real in this painting is the man's face. He looks modern. Find photograph, self-portrait of Picasso from this era and see if it is him.
I can not stop myself searching for &c. in this gallery. A part of me knows that he is empty and artless and that the likelihood of his presence here is rather slim. I see through another gallery archway door the textile crafts that J. said I would so much appreciate. I will save them for tomorrow by way of assuring an oath to come back.
Hand of the man whose face is the only real thing in La Vie is extended as is Christ's in various portrayals. Mirror reflecting mirror and kaleidoscopic effect in La Vie. What do I look for in the paintings of Picasso and Monet? I look for &c., because I know that is where I can find his soul and ultimately find him out.
I know so much less about the patterns in Monet. I know so much less of what it is to hear color really. I must also inspect Joan Miro for the answer. Why now, after it is over, do I acknowledge the passion and purpose of my quest, looking in ancient masters' brushstrokes for the soul of &c.? It is because I know that I will find his soul in a place that is nestled inside of mine. Every ardent labor to truly know another is the same: a journey of self-discovery. WHen I find him out, I will not only have found myself, but ferreted out of myself a demon inhabitant whose name is rage, confusion, self-defeat,. I know that he represents within me the senseless need of adoration. He is crippled without the adoration of many, and I was crippled coveting the adoration of him alone. La Vie. The darkest portrayal of man I have ever seen. La Vie, &c. La Vie, &c.
I am wasting. Only if I light it dramatically. I have regained my body halfway. Its appearance is back but its durability may be months in rejoining me. I was deeply startled by myself in the bathroom mirror. Who is this son of privilege who contains all of these aches? I suppose there is some hope of mercy in being tiny and sick like a rejected nestling.
Made a copy of Kind of Blue for J. last night. Usually, like another person I used to know, I am compelled to give away a copy with the liner notes when someone is in need of Kind of Blue. I searched for one, gave up easily, and burned it to disc from my itunes. I don't think I regret not searching harder. Rituals are destructive when they become superstitions. Even between lovers. My lover's superstitions were born long before any of my ideals, and he will hold to them as fast. The wine, this afternoon, tastes much drier. Perhaps it was hunger that made it so sweet with my friend.
I have taken to eggs again. A fried egg yesterday. A fried egg today. With pita. My mother sends me videos of a sikh darshan. The lady from whom I have been purchasing cigarettes is named Darshan, I noticed this morning. Drinking yogurt saves me from feeling sceptic. This makes me remember dragging J.H. to Sunset like J. tried to haul me last night. He hadn't eaten in a day, and I made him drink wine and eat tiny portions of foie gras and lamb with me. Just what the most deeply hurting heart needs. Tiny portions of cloven-hoofed garbage disposals and goofy French offal. Freddie Freeloader, indeed. I soothe myself to sleep by drumming the carefree beat on the inside of my left thigh.
I have some kind of upsetting bird totem.
david harsent is a sucky and amateurish poet. he wishes he were the evil John Donne. where do they find these fucking people? eat me. somebody ought to disable his language center and tie his hands.
Photo is memorandum. Leaving an abusive relationship is the second hardest thing I may ever do. No happiness. No more precious little moments among all the trauma. No baby. No baby this time either. The hardest thing will be staying away. Keeping him away. I can feel my insides clutching at it as if it were the only thing left in the world.
From Feb 15:
Wrote the first few pages of satisfactory mystical poesy in forever a few days yore. B.'s netflix left two brilliant films. Luis Bunuel's DIary of a Chambermaid. That and I just bought Viridiana tonight at fye from David. February. Lost the second pregnancy. Nine weeks and three days,
I can't decide whether or not to give c. the print that we ordered with his money. If I go back to him, if I let him come back to me this time, I will lose everyone Do I care? I Wonder. I Stayed drunk Friday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and especially Thursday. I started dosing myself with the Bunuel films on Monday and with the nerve pills on Thursday, Thank god for R. and his blue pills. I might have drowned on Thursday if not for the clarity, peace, apathy, blessed lethargy of those pills. I spilled to G. today, too. In front of a roomful of people. I spilled to obtain the tenderness and mercy that I needed while I was pregnant and when I lost it. There was a statistician at G.'s named Jesse, and I met his wife who had a classic permanent expression of bewildered patience. G. said, "This is Sam!" And she looked at me and said, "Where?" And around the corner at G.,"No! You're G." I can't help but wickedly hope that I inspired a tussle with him and his lady friend (?) who was waiting for him in a large Tahoe. Who knows who will come to see me tomorrow, so I'd better get up and dress for work. I have some gadgets for G. I always have ways of being interesting.
I always forget that I am at such proximity to real genius in my neighborhood. Mustn't forget the virtue of rising early and putting my face right. Facing the day already calmed by a sense of my own inner completeness.
Today:
Up all damn night watching tv episodes. It is therapeutic. I shall reset the sleep schedule tomorrow. No more drink, no more nerve pills. I've had two days off, and the pain will have mellowed enough to endure for the public. That or I will have hardened around it and ended up hell bent on obtaining my way. Oh storied vengeance. Woe to you who have crossed me. You are afloat in a shrinking pail of your own misery, my name on your lips, and never your eyes catching glimpse of my hand. Amen.
.
Oh. Shit.
This is what an art hero of mine entitled an oil painting of me. It was in another bleak February when I modeled for it. So now I think I ought to be painted through all my travails. Jeff Danley's exquisite oil paintings
Work. Two new. Interview Friday morning. Training last two weeks. Tuesday interviewee didn't work out.
Of interest:
Sikhism.
My mother's Jesus dreams.
Missing ISA Experience this weekend to go experience some deep unpleasantness.
Orthodoxy and priests coming down from the hill.
New high-test stage makeup from Performance.
Distaste for drug stores.
Extreme distaste for department stores.
Porcelain.
Nag Champa fragrance as veil.
The cyber Hukamnama.
Cortez the Killer.
Missing an essential tool after searching high and low.
The Knee.
Gum is poison.
