Journal notes from yesterday."At face value this Saturday's Stair auction offers intriguing possibilities for discovery." Painting by Robert Loughlin, Man in Water, Lot #359 from catalogued December 5th auction.
The image reminds me of M [my younger brother] - the way this image did.
I'm thinking of the guy who was there that night at Stair Galleries, sitting at a table talking to L. I was just hanging out while Gingerbread Boy waited for food, lay on the ground intriguing a toddler boy, then ate lasagne and then tiramisu. I hung sort of awkwardly, or not - wanting a drink - but wanting to be careful not to drink too much. I poured a tiny bit of red (because no white was open, I think) but I wasn't in the mood so then I think I did actually open a white. And had a bit in the same glass, mixed with the red - rosé now - with ice.
So I noticed the guy, talking to L. Straight off he reminded me of A., my cousin M's husband. Good looking in precisely that way. I can't say that his looks are "my type" but they are undeniably handsome, healthy, strong, in a Slavic way that I at least recognize. (So many Slavic faces that night - at Savoia, for example, a young woman with long blonde hair & alabster skin - an anioł [angel].)
And what of the elderly man, as I walked with Gingerbread Boy up Warren? At the intersection of Third Street, I think it was [maybe Fourth?], an elderly man came up close to me, as though looking at me through a fishbowl - he peered at me for a second very intently - his expression seemed to say - aha, huh! who would have thought you, well then, now I've seen - and he toddled off, to the north up 3rd St., carrying a suitcase.
I felt as though I was at the crossroads of life & death and - the image of an old man with a suitcase - isn't it, if not a cliché, then a recognized metaphor for the "passage"? I was a bit shaken after this encounter - it changed my rather fragile changeable mood. Gingerbread Boy was cavorting but I, alone in my own mind & experience & perceptions, felt that I had just seen my own father. I thought - my God, T's died tonight, or recently, and he's come to check me out. I wanted to tell someone - F, I suppose - but it was impossible at that careening, careering moment (or anytime afterward), in the icy mist & the crowds & the journeying up & down, & the crowds.
Watched Guillermo del Toro's The Orphanage - from the library, the only DVD in the 2 bookcases that spoke to me. Geraldine Chaplin (what a "fantôme") plays a medium - who's dying - she tells the woman protagonist that when you're dying, between the two worlds, you (one) are more sensitive to the vibrations (I should re-see that particular scene).
Am I dead, or dying? I don't think so. That whole experience of feeling that people in the parading crowd were projecting another meaning on me entirely - as - I can't even bring myself to write it down - it's too presumptuous - aha! I can bear to write down, think of Winifred!
Look up Winifred - what is that myth, story? Plus I still have a gallery postcard image, don't I? Ahoy!
Alas, no, discarded months ago in a wanton act of useless housekeeping, as is my wont. As is the NYRB issue containing an article on Gerard Manley Hopkins that I suddenly wish to reread.