Well, the last few days have been fairly uneventful, except for meeting Ted, which was actually quite eventful, stagnant impulses in me significantly stirred after only one afternoon of tea and dog walking. He’s an exceptional person, very inspiring to be around, full of vibrance and direction, wit and delight, intelligence and warmth. I am very excited about getting to know this dynamic young man better.
I’m working on Dean’s exhibition design for Marjorie Wood. Dean’s work is just sublime. The challenge for me here is to create something that mirrors the depth found in the rigorous simplicity of his gestures. Thus far, the “circle.” Tomorrow I’m experimenting with the “rectangle,” a bold departure into horizontality.
Okay, so Monday morning I hear this screaming and then feet running across the floor above my studio. Several more minutes another scream and feet again. After the third scream, I run upstairs, thinking perhaps Albie was having a heart attack and was rolling around in his desk chair trying to dial up an ambulance with his big toe, and there he is, the lobsterdude boyfriend of DM, visiting through Sunday. “The vacuum cleaner, it’s following me everywhere, I can’t get away from it!” “Well, I’m sorry that you’re bothered by it, but the cleaning lady’s here for another hour, maybe you’d like to take a walk or perhaps get out of my house, you’re in San Francisco and there’s a lot of stuff to do other than audibly masturbate all day when I’m right below you and you know that I’m hearing everything and I’m really not getting off like you imagine I am.” He’s the one who left an espresso machine on the stove last time he visited until it burned up (like, all of it), so I’m not too thrilled about him being here again and the promise of more destruction to my little housie. He and DM, whose bedroom is below mine, make love at least five times a night, loudly, thrillingly, sure, but at the expense of my much needed beauty rest. And this after beating off all day. For the last few days, several times a day, whenever he hears the slightest noise–the vacuum cleaner on Monday, a leaf blower on the sidewalk today, he screams, leaps up, runs across the flat, back and forth, and switches on all the TVs and stereos in the house, trying to drown out the sound. He’s like Roderick Usher on crystal meth. Today I rang his bell, “Hello, hello, Mr. Loster Dude…” but no answer, only everything turned on full blast. I turned everything off, didn’t find where he was hiding, and returned to my work. The bad energy in the house is actually cool, it’s so rare, I’m amused by it. Come Monday morning, though, I will talk with DM and suggest that perhaps if his boyfriend were to visit again, a padded cell somewhere might more sufficiently accommodate his desire for city life without city life.