I wrote for an hour this morning only to lose every last letter to a system failure. Blue screen of death taking away my dreams of effort. To the wind, to the rain. It’s not like it’s art, it’s not like it was important. I don’t Write, per se. The loss is nothing but a personal irritation, but oh. A day like this, my morning following my night. Irritation borders on the despair of old Steppenwolf authors. In retrospect, trying to brush up on my German before sleep was not the wisest of courses. Not after my less than satisfying evening. The book I was reading was obviously written in the middle of a bleak winter with killing winds howling outside. The writer would hunch over the paper with his pen, looking up occasionally only to stare for indeterminable times into the fire. It used to be I could read from one language to the next without noticing, but it’s been too long. It’s effort now, a constant clicking onto the computer to use a dictionary. In spite of the distraction that causes, even the chocolate cherry truffle Haagen Daz that Ray so kindly left in my freezer could not dispel the gloom that creeped from the yellowing pages to settle on me. It was trying to find sleep. I can’t imagine what dreams I would have had if I had attempted Russian.
Gavool was at the opening of the Douglas Coupland play last night. Unsurprisingly, the man is a brilliant conversationalist. If I could have been anywhere last night, I would have wanted to be there. Red theater seats and laughing technology referances. I look out at the gray rain today and I think of my day upcoming and his. Tonight is to be at the Jack Singer Concert Hall for the unveiling of the new sound system. “Bring your own music” One Yellow Rabbit all the way. Invite only. The rooms will be filled with his friends, his family, the people I want so much to meet. I want to exist in that world. Our time can be so hard sometimes because no-one there knows I exist. I want to be a face, a form, a style that laughs less bitterly. So far I’m only a name. To a few more, I’m also a picture. The rest know me as an amusing story. “I found her on my porch one day, wrapped in a sheet. An artists dream. I’ll never forget it. I was stricken. See, I didn’t know she was seventeen..” His hands following the story with graceful lines and self-mocking gesture. Why is it I meet the interesting ones through what I look like?
Damn I miss him.