I don't mean dogs are dumb, I mean dumb without negative connotation. Simple, basic, genuine.
Whether this arises from my reaction to hearing of my parents divorce, a jubilant extraordinary moment in time, or from pure good ol' American Psychological Association dysfunction: whatever.
Getting into a relationship is like going on holiday, like seeing old friends, like warm possibility or the intro to an erotic novel. It's like getting a good buzz+ after a good meal and great Scotch. It's like winning at something you really wanted to win at, or getting an awesome compliment you weren't expecting but hits a nail on a head you didn't realise was there. Or how I imagine a battery feels when it's fit snugly into it's charger and is plugged into a strong matronly 110 current. Like starting a painting that you can see so vividly that the physical rules of drying paint impede your genius.
Or "genius".
Other times I lie in bed with every muscle in my body silently taught maybe ripping a little before I can break free from the waking dream of merciless imagination. Last night it was an imaginary conversation between my Ex and her sister. I wasn't even in the story. I thought it would never end. At one point conscious that I wasn't moving or breathing it continued until my brain gave way and admitted angrily that I had run out of dogma.
Ever have a memory of an embarrassing moment so vivid that you turn pink remembering it? Hot even?
Sometimes I look at my Sailor Jerry pin-up calendar on the kitchen wall and sigh and tell myself that it keeps me sane. You just have to have the fantasy of women who have absolutely no affect on you whatsoever. They don't make you hot, sad, sentimental, bold, confused, falsely empowered, good, annoyed. They're sort of dead but still look good. It's okay because it's a fantasy. That's what that is. I hope no one ever fulfills it. I'd run like the wind on fire on Saturday on Tuesday and diarrhea.
I'd like to create a bodysuit of speakers all connected to their own subs but turned inward. And then I'd blast Black Eyed Peas. Runnin runnin and runnin runnin. See if it can shake a little bit of my soul loose so I can grab it by the neck and axe it some serious questions.
One night I had three bottles of white wine and didn't get drunk. Says a lot for white wine. White wine blows. The next night I had a bottle of red and a glass of whiskey and was able to conjure demons with names like George, Whittaker, and Donald. Those are not good names for demons. Uug that was a bad night.
So I've decided a few things, one is to paint more. I'm not sure where my paints are, probably my mom's house. I'll have to buy canvas and masonite. I'll go back to painting women in skirts and formal wear, maybe armed. It's the most innocent life I can breathe into a relationship. When I finish a painting there is a sense of accomplishment, some rogue effort that bullheadedly produced a picture of stuff. It feels good. It's worth staying up late for. I don't feel released from any cage. It was succinct. A start and end. It was temporary, manageable, challenging, learning, awesoming, stimulating, and DONE>
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