painting a (NY) life

To the southwest a volcanic sunset blazes in a mess of purple and orange. Savage clouds fervently smoke and smolder like a five-alarm fire, while elsewhere in the clear blue casually backlit shapes saunter by, and to the north a stark fan of black trees stands out against pale apricot sky.

Man, I wish I could paint. Surely it's easier - if one can paint.

Darling, I look forward to kisses because I'm sure they'll be less tortuous than some of my prose. Honestly some of those poetic tweeters make it look easy, not to mention haiku artists.

At any rate, enjoying the changing light, what's left of it - actually now it's dark, and savoring thoughts of you, and listening to radio, and basking in the warmth of baseboard heat because it's turned awfully cold out. I went for a walk at the conservation area in early afternoon and was shocked to get out of my car in the parking area to be blasted with a strong frigid headwind off the mountains that totally messed up my freshly washed hair as I came back along the easterly trail to the point that my hair was so in my eyes that I could hardly see to avoid the treacherous potholes in the snow.

Darling, I have no big finish or anything. Still dreaming and fantasizing about your beautiful shoulders (strong build, smooth skin), musing about how to more efficiently arrange for coffee in the mornings, and realizing that I won't have to purchase flowers or that amazing camembert at GCT - I can get them right around the corner from a posh, convenient market. Ah, only 69 days to go. But who's counting? I won't - I promise you, it'll be back to dailiness for me, my darling - but I am relishing that sense of spring coming, something to look forward to, no month in Costa Rica just this moment, but instead a paradisaical image of a Bonnard or Vuillard colorful interior domestic scene, or a John Koch, the two of us bathing...

image:
John Koch (1909-1978)
The Bath (1973)