Monday, April 11, 2011

My dearest, languid afternoon, sultry, solo after my siesta, one wood blind drawn, the other open, wishing you were here. Desultory squawking of miscellaneous birds outside the screened window, now and then a gust of wind blasts. It was in the eighties today and storms are forecast for evening. Traffic thrums on the highway, the sound carries, I hear a car horn blast, incongruous sound for here, reminding me of Brooklyn. So very little to report today. I experimentally made up a tote bag from a sage-green floral print, using another tote as a template, but it didn't come out very well, amateurish, and of a size that is of hardly any use to me. I'm losing interest in this project, since the results (unlike the aprons) aren't very professional. I realize too that the fabric is too lightweight, a stronger canvas would be better.

I read a sublimely sensual short story today, by James Salter, entitled Sundays (text here). It reminded me of me & you - especially given an uncannily resonant detail towards the end; the story throughout reminded me of erotic imaginings of me & you. The story as written overlaps and interweaves with my fantasies.

I've never read James Salter, barely heard of him in fact, but I immediately responded to this story, and also to his remarks in this interview. I related to his observation, "... as a writer, I’m not tremendously imaginative. So I want to have my feet on the ground."

Salter has written novels and other fictions (clear displays of imagination), for which he is being currently feted. But I sense what he means. I feel that way about myself, that I'm not 'tremendously imaginative.' I can't invent all that has to go into a novel or short story. I'm puzzling how to invent my own life - as chronicled in this bitácora - let alone having the capacity or imagination to come up with alternative fictions. Everyday I Write the Book, as Elvis Costello puts it.

Just checked the KZE playlist, missed Let the Light In. My darling tinman. Outside a neighbor revs his motorcycle. Wind chimes breezily clang. Skies are in suspenseful gray, awaiting dusk & storms. I'm in a summer top and underwear. Perhaps, as I freely imagine, if I bringdown an art book about one of our favorite painters we can re-enact a scene, one that needn't, for us, be limited to a Sunday. And you know, a tube of graisse isn't a bad idea either.

Very many kisses.

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