Spent some quality quiet time with the Big Chrissy this evening, Emily having bailed on cruising the gallery openings with me. Fine, actually, I’ve been really tired, lots of running around this week, not much time for lounging, not even studio time. I visited D earlier at SF General. I’ve seen him about every other day since last Friday, and feel that he’s improving already. He takes a very long time to answer any question, and often we just stare at each other for long stretches. I squirm and avert my eyes, I know what he’s thinking, and he sees right through me. Nothing’s changed. All the feelings are there, the attraction and the fear, the excitement. Our proximity provides access to a pared down sensual experience, like a Vincente Minnelli film, titillation and spectacle without substance. I love him. I look at him and the images fragment and swirl around my head, ideas for pieces, for series, garden parterres, sculptures. He’s still my muse. His flesh and warmth seem so essential to my own creative impulse, I panic when I think of it decaying. I want him to want to live, yet I can’t stir that desire in him. Perhaps it’s the awareness that his chemistry may be beyond my influence that I feel panicky, that he’s not capable of embracing the challenge of being.
Tales of Post-Twinkie Ennui