forty-eight days
Thank god for Snufkina, who swears she isn't counting in her head every time I mention him. She certainly manages to keep the eye-rolling to a minimum. A glance around stirs up all my usual fears, but I will get over myself and it will pass. Overtired. Troupe stuff is kicking my ass; somehow I took on another project for the fundraiser that involves handling money, which is not my strong suit, but whatever: someone had to step up and do it. Modelling a double tomorrow--later today--now's not a good time for it, but I'd scheduled these jobs, both with people I like, before I realized that I would be behind this week.
Trying to sort books into orderly piles. Trying to make my place look not quite so chaotic, in case I have company later. A caller who might not see the artistic potential in clutter.
A friend blogged a fantasy recently, one that impressed me with how far-reaching and world-changing it could be if it came true. Beautiful, killer phrases: communist afro-puff babies pouting around our ankles. Compared to which my new fantasy this week seems neither as poetic nor as well-written, but here it is: a sandwich.
A kiss on the head, a word of encouragement, a look at text on the screen. Talk of editors, of agents, of how to solve a particular linguistic snarl. And then I put the sandwich and its mismatched plate down, maybe on a stack of papers, and retreat to my own screen, my own text, my own precarious stacks of books, notebooks, sketchbooks, illegible scrawls on placemats that have been folded up in my messenger bag for a day or two too long. My own sandwich (this one without onions) on its own mismatched plate.
Yes, I think about sex. Pretty much all the time I'm not thinking about where I need to be next, or whether I need to burn a tux shirt in the guise of ironing, or whether I'll make it to the library before it closes. But some of my fantasies--reading together, watching him take out his contacts, shopping for groceries--seem so much more dangerous because they are so prosaic, and have so much more to do with the fabric of a life than a couple of hours in bed.
A big love expressed through small gestures. That is what I want to make. So mundane. I don't miss the fantasy of a big love made of big gestures, of artsy desperation, angst-ridden walks along damp grey-sky beaches where we try to Know Each Other as though the earth will split if we don't Figure It All Out. I mean, I like those things, but I no longer trust them as indicators of solidity or a true and lasting connection. I've had all that.
Just, you know. Some meat, some mustard, two slices of bread. Lettuce if there's any in the fridge that isn't antediluvian.
