I met Sarah C today. She and Emily are going to be the next featured artists at the Marjorie Wood Gallery, so they came over for tea and melon and to discuss their project. I had nearly forgotten, as I spent most of the day visiting doctors and phlebotomists with D, who had a spinal tap to determine if there is any neuroligical or organic basis for his depression. Is there any other basis? Anyway, there were Emily and Sarah, on my doorstep. Emily’s writing these days, the layers of her writing not as obscured as her visual work, but fractured and narrative, and raw and melodic, and Sarah’s like Emily and Léonie’s love child, so their collaboration is going to be hot. They’re the third in a series of collaborations between writers and artists in which the writing’s not of a critical nature. Rainey, my favorite girly man, and former lip and butt (see below) model, interrupted our noshing to wisk me away to dinner in the Mission, and we dished and swished our way through all of our recent loves and woes. I love my queeny friends. Like drinking orange juice after brushing my teeth, bitter and sweet.
And I love the complete suspension of reality at that point when one of us eventually says of whom-ev-er, “Oh, girl, she is such a queen.”
