Monday, March 19, 2001

Homemade Spicy and Ricey Miso Soup With Plenty of Veggies

I can't believe before today your painting never existed. And magically or at least inspirationally with the strokes of a brush to the canvas, a face appears and never leaves my mind.

I wish I had a steady hand that could have taken the colors I had in my mind and did what she did for a mere writing of a check: move another's soul. I have a few photographs that I look at once in a while to remind myself of other days. They say a picture is worth a thousand words and some I know have that many rattling around inside. I wish I knew the equation could be said about words dispersed into the void, read by strangers and heartbreakers reciprocally. A professionally broken covenant, a cracked chalice spilling its blood like wine.

And the person I've shared more words with was the one who saw the painting. Recently returned from the sunny south I've come to wonder why she gave me a first aid kit for Christmas. Just like the time she gave me the white album from a former camp counselor. I read when the Beatles broke up Paul McCartney said that he hid behind his beard. He suddenly felt useless, without a job or a purpose. Once upon a long ago feeling the same I struggled through a myriad of ticks on the clock as the object of the portrait walked me through the abyss. Now I wonder why she did.

I had a long business lunch with the temporary quixotic soon to be law school bound esquire and the kickboxing Australian alum Jezebel who told me my attitude needs adjusting to fill that half full glass. They both chuckled when I revealed that what I wrote was both the truth and fiction. We talked Aristotle and Krinkie and I remembered when I was their age and thought back then I probably could have seen the train up the tracks and wouldn't have minded the picture whatsoever.
Decapitated in an elevator I think I could rise again, heartless I'd be hard pressed to continue on. And I told them so. She told me she was impressed by the size of my record collection and my fondness for Lakeville artist Stuart Davis. The daffodil bloomed in a multitude of cubicles.

I called the Burnsville jewel felon who just had her nails done. Living in a motel apart from her cats she read the number on the call waiting feature of her cell phone and knew it was me before I said a word. An alliance based upon commerce where both sides justify the legality of the compact. I tracked her down with a google search and she said that she might lose it all.

A connection whose existence is destined to exist because a coming upon the annual anniversary of the time a computer fixing offer was turned into a transition from having my breath taken away to having the wind knocked out of me. Never has anyone said anything more cruel, more unfair to me and I didn't dare respond. And I haven't quite been the same since.
A famous once feral feline misjudges a leap suffering from the passing of a multitude of more than the twinkling of an eye. Maybe it's the frigid five year old abode. Maybe it's his emotional state of nexus left alone for too long a time.

Two years ago he liquidated himself on Thanksgiving day. He had had enough. closing his garage door the fumes consumed him. And since that day a ghost has hovered over everything he would have done. If only they knew that instead of an overdose of Tryptophan (notice the spelling) and stuffing he had separated the part that connects his thoughts with his feelings. They were weary of his phone calls and the one he dialed up that day never spoke to him in quite the same way ever again even though she shed a seemingly authentic tear when he announced the lip. Their Last Dinner she asked if she had done something to "offend him." Now he wondered the same. The spilt heart hurt deep.

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