I am not keen on musicals, but this I would see.
The cloud loved me to pieces, wanted to be my high-hung hero, but only rescuing the parts in a singular vision of unilateral need, not all. One-way vision of a cloud is downward. Clouds hover, and this drizzle detective spied the splashy bits of me from afar and decided long before we met, which soft morsels would be engulfed first, probably mamms and glutes, the prominent parts, before soaking the skin to its marrowed bone, for those bits were obtuse objects of ejaculative enjoyment that only a cloud could outwardly conceive.
Clouds are opaque, particulate substances of deceptively barely perceptible content, but they are felt and can cause harrowing angst, ultimately fear. Storm clouds, for instance. Cumulonimbus beckons the discontented rain, sky signs of rocky weather while cirrus paints the sky calm for smooth sailing.
We were once warm but then the cooling produced more clouds in the stratosphere. When we first met, cloud on high, mare’s tails and cirrocumulous and cirrostratus of wispy wanton strokes across my face and hands, light touches, silent sighs, slowed my pace, pausing in misted percipience. I was closer to the ground then, inhaling dust of the agitated lowland dirt and needed the precipitation, a washing off of the old ways.
And as you made your way down, altocumulus, heavier on my tail, vaporous droplets down my neck, cloying clutch, more threatening with your sudden struts of blasted fretting and thunderous moaning, your thick strands of desperate tendril attachment, you clung to me like sticky humidity, suffocating flypaper, inescapably omnipresent, both inevitable and ever-forming: cumulus, stratus, cumulonimbus, cumuli stratus, all of you sucking my skin moist ciliating my breath that inhaled you in hopeful oxygenated renewal and expelled you in disappointed delusional destruction, moment by moment–dizzying with your denseness obscuring sight, obtuse prescience, dull ratiocination, and dubious succor, which were just schemes as transparent as you up close, mere apings of the bonehead borrowings from others, banefully boring and clumsy. It took lightning to flash on sight. Then the downpour.
After-burst renewing, insightfully born in a cloudless sky clears the way for time and breath kept close on the wing. Peace brother cloud. The winds blow you across other visages, fare for another day’s delights and despair. Me, I’m walking to the sun. Fire over inundation.
And after this, no more silken lies tell.
Hairy legs swept free from their web,
clearing the corners where secrets dwell
in its predator to prey, rotting suspense.
After this one last fool, the venom pools
in another victim of putrefaction’s paws.
Arachnid jaws of acidic kisses of cruel
juiced to the grave, engorged paunch.
Tell me, sweet, the eyes of the doomed
plead for love of the kill, lie me to sleep.
“Do you want me to stop by after work?” he asks with earnest caret-shaped eyebrows.
“No, I’m not going to be home,” she says distractedly looking for her keys in her purse and not at him.
“Oh? You’re going out?”
“I have some running around to do, errands,” she replies now looking at him but still half attentive.
“Do you want some company doing errands?” he asks, still earnest.
“No. I have too many to do and…it’s just best if I do them alone,” she assures though with her head again buried in her purse.
“Are we okay?” his earnestness now morphed into deep concern, brows furrowed.
Exasperated, she turns to him now and complains, “Ugh, yes we’re fine. Why do you have to ask that all the time? You sound so insecure and…I’m sorry,” she apologizes in defeat. “That’s not where I wanted this to go. We can get together when I’m finished,” she concedes.
“Do you know what time you’ll be finished?” he asks with renewed courage by her concession.
“No, it depends on how long the line is at AT&T and when I get to the market,” she replies with a hint of dullness back in her voice again.
“Well, do you know approximately what time? afternoon? evening? night?” he persists.
“NO! I don’t!” she barks at him. “Listen, you are going to have to be flexible here if you want to get together. I will text when I am done. If you’re free, we’ll get together. If something comes up for you and you’re no longer free, then we will get together some other time,” she rattles off as she exhales slowly.
“Okay, but I really don’t want to do anything else. I’d rather see you,” he confesses resignedly.
“Well, then you’re going to have to wait for my text,” she reminds him rather shortly.
“I don’t get why you won’t tell me when you think you’ll be done, I mean just approximately.”
“Not I won’t. I can’t!” she counters with heat rising in her face and tightness forming in her lips.
“Well, what exactly do you have to do?” he tries her with careful curiosity.
Sighing deeply, “Oh really now. Do I have to go through my to do list?” Exasperated, “Okay, I have to go to AT&T to exchange my phone; it doesn’t charge. Then I have to pick up a turkey I ordered at the market before it closes. Then I have to bring Mark to and from soccer practice. I have to make dinner. It’s already 2:00, so this discussion is just eating up valuable time. Why don’t I just go do what I have to do?” she glares at him with growing impatience.
“Okay, so you don’t have any idea how long all of that will take, huh?”
“For Crissakes, no!!!” she shouts, slamming her keys in a loud crash on to the floor.
“Wow, you’re so angry. Are you sure we’re okay?”
Looking forward to doing things that increase my happy this year, one of which is to see more movies–that is, carefully selected films.
I used to pride myself on keeping abreast of the latest in cinema and music, always knowledgeable of the reviews and stars of the new and up and coming movies and albums. My husband and I would often compare our notes for the week’s reviews over dinner, each of us agreeing with or refuting Robert Hillburn’s reviews in the LA Times on music or Siskel & Ebert on the movies. It was the nineties and for us a time of celebrating creativity by taking in art fairs around town, even purchasing pieces, and subscriptions to plays in Los Angeles. We went to concerts of our favorite artists at the time, Sting or the Police before him, enjoyed small jazz clubs in Newport or classical performances at the Hollywood Bowl. Then we had kids.
After children, we barely had time to remember our names let alone keep up on the arts. Something about that lost time always has me remotely anxious about the possibility of alien scientific observational abductions or parallel lives. Where exactly were we and what were we doing all that time that seemed impossibly franticly activity and emergency-laden? And yet I cannot remember more than a blur of movement punctuated by tears of joy, terror and pride
But now that the kids are mostly grown, I have the yearning to re-immerse myself in the creative world, enjoy the spirit of human expression. Toward those efforts, I spent some time last year checking out a few friend-recommended and friend-curated gallery openings around town and in the city, OMC Gallery of Contemporary Art in Old World, Huntington Beach, and Coagula Curatorial in Los Angeles, to name a couple, for discovering up and coming and/or lesser known artists. I also went to the locally notorious Sawdust Art Festival in Laguna Beach for the first time, though I have lived in Southern California for over 35 years, in addition to a few visits to to the biggies of museums like Los Angeles County Museum of Art to see the Stanley Kubrick installation and later the World Cup soccer exhibition, as well as the Huntington Library, the latter for the first time.
These discrete instances have stirred the hunger for more to colorize my thoughts and the sensibilities the way only the arts can. This year will continue the gradual immersion back into the b/c (before children) life with even more live music performances both classical and rock I enjoyed the latter part of last year, more art appreciation opportunities and more movies.
I read this a few weeks ago, but thought a blog post about the Sundance Festival projected favorites of the year would both offer readers who missed it a heads up and manifest my intention to sit in theaters more (so I get to see an entire movie rather than portions that I happen to walk in on when the rest of the family is vegging before the tube). There are several movies on the list I’m excited for, but of course Mistress America attracted my attention by the title alone. Not much has been released about this Noah Baumbach collaboration with Greta Gerwig (Francis Ha), other than the one or two lines of plot–college freshman gets yanked from solitude into wacky escapades by her future relative–and that it is scored by Indie pop duo Dean Wareham and Britta Phillips (who I listened to and enjoyed in researching this short review).
Curious title for the plot snippet published, which entices me to watch for enlightenment. In what context is “Mistress” used, as owner, object of desire, or illicit interloper? And is the future step sister the mistress with that title or is America called a mistress, titled by mistress as form of address? I get distracted by this sort of thing. Like everyone else, however, I’ll have to wait and see.
Hope for all those not working (I am, but contentedly so) it is a down day, down on the couch or in the armchair that is, watching movies or football or the garden grow, whatever relaxes. Peace.