My friend Dan has been guardian angeling my painting career this month. He dropped off paint and used canvases twice last week, enabling my colorful career failure.
Above is a paint over of a student’s work. He or she painted a whale surfacing for a blow off the shore of a tropical island. I painted my heart on a spit, or headless chickens struggling to the top of a giant plum tomato. Both work to construe a meaning. The word arrangement is also ambiguous. Either Find Love/Close Hell/O Nurse! Or Find Love Close/Hello Nurse! Both work as a philosophy.
Love letters! Who knew? Success after geographical isolation, a steady income and access to enough country wine to maintain the illusion.
From Leopold Courting Rose:
The thing is, and maybe I am wrong in saying so, is that I am not holding you long enough on the rocks, in bed, on a side street, but that it makes me that much more eager to hold you. It isn’t a matter of being a novice. I know how to hold you, but I cannot always hold out as long as I wish for fear of smother love.
An invisible Rose once haunted my dreams. Now that you’re here, it is impossible for me to turn off the dream. Not only that, but it is in my hands so to speak. I can direct it with your permission. No dream is that wonderfully controllable.
Bad to think about the end of some beginning before it’s even happened. Yes I am eager, so eager, to keep the beginning all the way to the end.
Yet already I have lived a hundred lifetimes with you. I don’t know what day it is, and I don’t think I will ever care again.
You are here and I will begin this song of love. In a safe world, expression is taboo. Anyway, what safe world? All appearances being false, (for example, the sun is not a star, rain is not wet, cloud not fluffy dreams but heavy water monsters that if ever lost the urge to fly would crush us like ants), I say that just staying alive is the utmost concern.
But let’s do it creatively.
I need to express these facts: You are not Rose. I have never lied down to bed with you. I don’t know your real name, for you are always telling lies.
You are nameless, timeless, and I need you to know that I am mad about you more for your notness, because that is the dangerous way. And if you love me on that road, there is no thing strong enough in this world to break us apart.
Oh to hold you not nearly long enough, to never complete a sentence, to stop halfway—