.jpg)
But you pointed to the paintings hanging on the walls of the Louvre and the paintings were stuck in the reflection of my eyes.
And I said, "Wait, wait." So I slid my [leather] backpack off my shoulders, unzipped it hurriedly, and drew out my journal. I opened to my proudest page. Clean, white page. Final draft in pen.
But you listed names like Rothko and Alis Priddy and Devastated Daisy and Devastation Diaries and Grace Kelly and Hazel Grace and Gene Wilder and Dick Tidrow and Syl and Kat Stratford and Esther Greenwood and Joel Kenney and Phyllis Dae Sloan and Joel Barish and nom de plume and Teenwulf and White Rabbit and Reginald Delicious and Charlotte Charles and people who write as effortlessly as they speak.
And I took the names. But I didn't quite know what you wanted me to do with them. So I read them. Over and over and over and over. And I think I'm starting to figure it out.
So then I show you again. I take out my journal. And now it's a little faded. The pages are worn thin. The book is full of the scribbles dancing with the script and skipped lines and
You flip through some pages. Point at things you like. And you show me dance videos.
And I think I get it.
Every "but", every word. I can't quote any of it because I never want to forget all of it. God; paintings, the names, the beautifully worn pages. What you mean and how you strung it together. Transcendental. I don't have enough words, but I feel like I just gained something infinitely beyond what I can see by looking at the stars in the night sky. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteTrust me, you're original. One of the good ones.
ReplyDeleteThat picture is true and it scares me.
I actually really like your blog. If I haven't commented on any of your posts, I promise that it's because I wrote a comment in my head and forgot to actually post it, because I know that I've loved your posts. Yeah. It happens really often, unfortunately. Anyway, keep writing, because you're really good.
ReplyDeleteFunny, here I was trying to write like Soap.
ReplyDelete