My friends Richard and Jim live in a glass house that overlooks the Russian River, framing a view of rolling grassy hills, the rear of the house nestled against a redwood forrest. Jim cooked one of Julia Child’s stews last weekend, accompanied by a deliciously crisp potato gratin and countless bottles of various Sonoma County wines. I made a pear upside-down cake. We drank until the wee hours of the night, which oddly turned out to be only 9:30pm, at which time we all passed out. I slept for 12 hours, returning to the city after a wonderfully relaxing weekend with my friends.
I hope they didn’t get bored with the constant subject of Stavros. I seemed to turn every discussion somehow back to him. Driving up there, through the vineyards and orchards and the colorful leaves and long shadows of autumn, I listened to a playlist of music that we listened to together over the summer. I howled mournfully and sincerely, tears flowing aerodynamically down my cheeks: There ain’t nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing impossible / Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing’s impossible / Oh no, nothing, nothing, for your love, your love, your love, your lo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ove. Somehow, for me, connecting the most deeply with someone suddenly entails actually believing all those corny lyrics, to every corny song that was ever written. All those songs about love, they’re really acute observations of all this intense hormonal and chemical activity that has overtaken and overwhelmed most of my faculties and desires. I found a dream that I could speak to / A dream that I can call my own / I found a thrill to press my cheek to / A thrill that I’ve never known. I hear these songs and a little lightbulb goes off over my head. “Oh my god, he’s right! The moon does hit your eye like a big pizza pie!”
Tomorrow I’m off to the Big Apple with Big Chrissy. Stay tuned for details of our exciting adventures…