2004-07-02 - 3:37 p.m.
Originally written June 5th, 2004. Transcribed today.
It is slightly embarrassing that whatever powers I hold over the female gender have been upended by those with slightly beefier builds encased in golf gear.
There is no room for carnal desires in the life of the artist. He is too busy making confessions to his leather bound journal to make eyes at the young ladies clad in fishnets and veils speckled in condoms. It is the artist’s place to stand to the side of the magnificence that is the joining of two people inebriated beyond all reason; a union destined in the stars for regret, terror, and story unfit to tell the grandkids. I am to look on as the golf boys start shedding caps and sweater vests to the tune of Paradise City accompanied by the ironic laughter of aroused women who pointedly laugh at their suitors pointed nipples, while imaging how they’d feel running between their manicured fingers.
Truth is, so many will take the compliment of being approached as a possibility for true love, but so few are willing to take the risk of pursuing. I know this to be true, and yet here I sit hoping to be approached by those who would like nothing better than to be approached themselves. And why would they walk over here? The mystique of a man so disinterested he makes love in ink and paper, at the back of the bar, rather than share a “Hey, how are ya?’ with the object of his desire?
This is the way of the artist, at least by rigid definition: The one who enjoys life vicariously is the one who can best objectively render the scene.
True or not, this paints a rather quiet and uneventful path for those who might take it; to gaze and study the details of one’s subject but never luxuriate in them.
His decisions are made in the tone and tenor of his creations, rather than the manner of his actions.
This is what renders “the artist” as impotent as a freshly groin kicked Bob Dole.
Our work, so tender, so moving, is shed to those apart from its meaning. Our praise and our scorn are heard by those removed, not those described.
I begin to wonder if struck and taken by the moment, I should take my scribblings and drop them at the feet of their inspiration. Valentines spread like confetti.
Writing is simply an act of definition. Only when it is tendered is it expression.
Any writing, be it a poetry or a historical critique, if it is not given, is simply masturbatory.
TO THE EXHAUSTED MAN IN SWIM TRUNKS:
When your girlfriend has finished tanning, it is proper, no matter what your relationship, for her to announce her intent to leave and check for your agreement. Simply getting up without a word and walking away should not your cue to gather her things and follow sheepishly. I’m all for being outlandishly gentle with one’s spouse, but a little courtesy is not beyond her grasp.
TO THE WOMAN SITTING CROSS-LEGGED BY THE POOL WEARING A BORED EXPRESSION:
I have not spoken with you, nor have I any speck of understanding for even the most obvious elements that make up your being, but simply watching the gentle grace with which you comport yourself compels me to think that you are deserving of much more than the bulky speedo’ed man who refused to let go of your hand after the requisite three pumps in the handshake. Drink the drink he bought you, graciously say your good-byes, and meander over in this direction for some intriguing conversation on existentialism with the strange blond kid in the come hither Thundercats T-shirt. I dare ya.
Truth is I’d probably carry your matched luggage set without even a glance.
But that’s probably why you’re not sashaying over here.
That or that fact that these pages will never leave my notebook.
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