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.