Wednesday morning, 1 am
Apr. 9th, 2003 01:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zana16Spent five hours in the Prado before they kicked me out; going back tomorrow. Didn´t get to Goya, cause I spent hours looking at the Titians and Rubens. God I love that man. If Erin were more Rubens-esque, I realized, I would lust after her. Since Erin is not exactly aware of my existence and is instead much too elf-thin and frail for my tastes, life works out well, and the No More Girlfriends rule is not challenged. But really, she is the one I was thinking about as I wandered the Rubens rooms. Mostly I'm not attracted to women with Rubens bodies, but Erin for some reason.... this is another reason I avoid her. I am afraid I would lust after her, feel like a dirty old man, and probably break her porcelain body in the process of trying not to fall in love. What can I say? The wounded goth-type poet has always been a huge turn-on for me, at least when it comes to women....
Repeat to self: No More Girlfriends. You have committed yourself to being straight you fool. Not because of any silly society rules but because while you could deal with breaking a boy´s heart--though it would torture you--you know you could never have an honest relationship with a woman for fear of hurting her. I feel guilty enough over Sarah.
Ooooo, angst. Haven´t been visited by that demon in awhile.
Meanwhile in my musings have mused upon self. Last night in restaurant sat down to write a story and realized when I'd gotten through the first part that I was writing an allegory of myself:
Self Portrait
-1-
She sits at the corner table of a tiny traditional restaurant in central Madrid. Around her, the other tables buzz with conversationa and laughter. She is the only foreigner here. She is silent.
The waiter tries to make conversation every night when she comes in, but he has not succeeded yet. She answers his broken questions--he took English in high school, but that was years ago--with a perfect Spanish accent, the language staccato in her one-word replies.
She never drinks wine.
He offered her a glass once, "on the house" which meant out of his pocket; she intrigued him. She said no but he brought her one anyways. She didn´t say a word, and she didn´t touch the wine.
Sje reads; anything and everything. Tuesday night she will sit in her corner till closing, reading the new Newsweek International. Saturdays it´s Le Monde Diplomatique. Every once in awhile she´ll read a paper in an alphabet the waiter doesn´t recognize. He thinks it´s Russian. He is relieved when she pulls out a small dictionary to look up words.
But there are customers to serve and owners to argue over salary with, and he has little time for the mystery girl. Eventually he loses interest, and she has only to rattle off her nightly selection before a silent meal can begin. Which, it seems, is how she wants it.
She has mastered the art of being invisible.
-2-
When she needs to become re-visible, though, there is a problem. She has done her job too well. The tiny room she rents from an old mother with no grandchildren is her nest, but after nourishing and healing her, it is time to venture out. The old woman is hardly even aware that she´s there; fifteen euros and a baguette appear in the kitchen each day, as if by magic. Every Saturday a load of laundry to iron migrates from the clothesline outside the kitchen window to the sofa in the living room, and this is as normal as eating dinner at ten each night. Every day she squeezes a glass of orange juice and leaves it on the counter; when she gets back from the market, the glass has been washed and is drying in the wire drainer. Her encounters with her phantom houseguest are few and far between, and occur only when the old lady has deviated from her normal routine.
Both of them are happier this way, or at least that´s what the old woman thinks.
She doesn't know what her boarder thinks, because she doesn´t know her boarder. Nine months and she still doesn't know whether the girl is English or American. Nine months andd the girl doesn't know the names of her hostess's dead sons.
It's better this way, the old mother tells herself when she thinks about it.
Which isn´t often.
-3-
Zeke knows it is time to leave the nest when the dreams change. She knows she isn´t ready to fly yet, not far, buyt she can try out the mended wings and return safely to her haven when she needs to. The wings feel stiff, raw and unused, and she can still feel the scars, tight puckers of skin over bones that ache when the rain comes. But she is ready to become visible again. She just doesn´t know how.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will retire from the public scene.
Repeat to self: No More Girlfriends. You have committed yourself to being straight you fool. Not because of any silly society rules but because while you could deal with breaking a boy´s heart--though it would torture you--you know you could never have an honest relationship with a woman for fear of hurting her. I feel guilty enough over Sarah.
Ooooo, angst. Haven´t been visited by that demon in awhile.
Meanwhile in my musings have mused upon self. Last night in restaurant sat down to write a story and realized when I'd gotten through the first part that I was writing an allegory of myself:
Self Portrait
She sits at the corner table of a tiny traditional restaurant in central Madrid. Around her, the other tables buzz with conversationa and laughter. She is the only foreigner here. She is silent.
The waiter tries to make conversation every night when she comes in, but he has not succeeded yet. She answers his broken questions--he took English in high school, but that was years ago--with a perfect Spanish accent, the language staccato in her one-word replies.
She never drinks wine.
He offered her a glass once, "on the house" which meant out of his pocket; she intrigued him. She said no but he brought her one anyways. She didn´t say a word, and she didn´t touch the wine.
Sje reads; anything and everything. Tuesday night she will sit in her corner till closing, reading the new Newsweek International. Saturdays it´s Le Monde Diplomatique. Every once in awhile she´ll read a paper in an alphabet the waiter doesn´t recognize. He thinks it´s Russian. He is relieved when she pulls out a small dictionary to look up words.
But there are customers to serve and owners to argue over salary with, and he has little time for the mystery girl. Eventually he loses interest, and she has only to rattle off her nightly selection before a silent meal can begin. Which, it seems, is how she wants it.
She has mastered the art of being invisible.
When she needs to become re-visible, though, there is a problem. She has done her job too well. The tiny room she rents from an old mother with no grandchildren is her nest, but after nourishing and healing her, it is time to venture out. The old woman is hardly even aware that she´s there; fifteen euros and a baguette appear in the kitchen each day, as if by magic. Every Saturday a load of laundry to iron migrates from the clothesline outside the kitchen window to the sofa in the living room, and this is as normal as eating dinner at ten each night. Every day she squeezes a glass of orange juice and leaves it on the counter; when she gets back from the market, the glass has been washed and is drying in the wire drainer. Her encounters with her phantom houseguest are few and far between, and occur only when the old lady has deviated from her normal routine.
Both of them are happier this way, or at least that´s what the old woman thinks.
She doesn't know what her boarder thinks, because she doesn´t know her boarder. Nine months and she still doesn't know whether the girl is English or American. Nine months andd the girl doesn't know the names of her hostess's dead sons.
It's better this way, the old mother tells herself when she thinks about it.
Which isn´t often.
Zeke knows it is time to leave the nest when the dreams change. She knows she isn´t ready to fly yet, not far, buyt she can try out the mended wings and return safely to her haven when she needs to. The wings feel stiff, raw and unused, and she can still feel the scars, tight puckers of skin over bones that ache when the rain comes. But she is ready to become visible again. She just doesn´t know how.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will retire from the public scene.
