The photo is from yesterday morning, but the scene now is about the same, with a glass of wine, ripe melon roses in peeling deshabillé, wanton tousles around pursed narrow tubes, roughly the mood I'm in, come to think of it.
I think of you, but who am I thinking of? In my dark private screening room the projector reels a Bergmanesque film, with the merging, alternating faces of men I have at one time adored, or still do, or whom I've never met but who through photographic images are familiar and dear to me, and an obscured face too, the face of my lover. The images shift, flicker, interchange, repeat. My shadowy lover has met me a couple of times he says, and communes with great constancy with me through my writing. Which gives him the superior advantage to a fellow who looks nice enough, but isn't acquainted with my mind or I with his. There, there's no there there, and before long we look at one another askance - that is not what I meant at all. I cherish that you return again and again, that you like the way I think - I never have to explain myself. By the way, you have a way with words and wit yourself. You have slayed me with your adverbs in particular, restored my faith in them. A woman croons on the radio now, I long for your kiss. Yes darling - back at you, fortement.
Not even six and the windows are pitch dark, not that it was ever all that light today, overcast and fitfully rainy. I went for a walk around here, empty streets and back roads, but not, today, the shortcut trail that climbs the hill behind the church, I couldn't stand the thought of emerging, by myself, at the back of the ancient graveyard. Instead there were wild rapids on Urban Road, dark gold autumn foliage still, no geese today - good, because no bread in pocket, not yet.
Someone in the "Netherlands" has been gulping my blog in large draughts, 27 posts at once today, similarly this weekend. I hate it when you use a proxy - how much more removed can you be from me? On one counter you show as Brooklyn, on the other - same hit - as France. I tried myself and appeared as "Germany." I found a new image today of former paramour, one I hadn't seen before. I blow it up and blow it up (150/200/400/800), and his immoveable face dissolves into pixels, he never looks up, I still don't know what he looks like now, not really. I had ruled him out but started to wonder again today - until your hit from local waters. And now resumes the "flickr" set of my beloved preceptor, whoever he might be. All I ever wanted really, was one, at any one time anyway. I've always been serially monogamous - now I'm just serial.
Darling anonymous, I love you whoever you are. You have the advantage, apparently, of knowing who I am. I'm a holograph - you have an image of me - you're the projector.
Many kisses. XOXO. Must run. Audrey promised - David Gray - next.
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