I met two artists today. Sat down in their studio and drank bubbling water while their child ran around cardinal red paintings dotted with silver mesh. The thing about artists is they make you feel happy and comfortable and loved.
My mind is full of snapshots. The year behind me lies out in technicolor syndromes.
New Year's Eve was spent dancing on beige carpet in a room with a view of the sea in Del Mar. Everyone but Lulu was there and the tribal beat overtook me as it always does.
The last time I had a deep conversation with Lulu about libido, we were sitting in 26 Mix on Mission Street for Ladies Night. Thigh to thigh in a plush red leather booth with dirty martinis, we watched the Amazonian black braided DJ goddess spin tribal remixes for her Louise Brooks' hairdo wearing Betty Boop baby on the dance floor.
The SFMoma showed female Brazilians in a baroque show. The installations were full of violence, doll melting into pink girlhood bedroom drapes, gashes in canvas with guts spilling out, huge dioramas of a cultural rage I don't understand. I realized that my own rage had faded.
I am learning that progression is the only necessity on our path through this life. That fear is the thing that keeps us alive. Sacred geometry is taking place, corner to corner, side to side.
My lover tells me that everything is rehashed or collaborated upon. I tell him that we can rehash and individuate simultaneously. That life is all in the experience. I think we're both right.
My friend Thomas and I get together frequently to have "What are we going to do when we grow up?" talks. I spend one night in a cool blue room filled with plants and sweet sounds. I drive past two boys smoking cigarettes. They are debonair on icicle slick sidewalks this winter.
Crispest night. Feels like December.
Sand is blowing over sand. The sky is new, softly shifting, breezes whip around in oblivion. The plateau in the valley is frigid. The sun sets pliant, soft, and bourbon red. I live my life in a giant sienna garden.