A year ago, the music affected me in such a way that my stomach lurched and I felt as if I might vomit. The songs grappled with the human condition – desire, adoration, devastation, hope – sung by teens radiant with the glow of youth. Their lyrics slipped through my pores like a truth serum. I wanted to bolt. I believed I was under some curse or coming down with the flu. I drove to the bar where my husband was working. It quickly became apparent that the snake poisoning my body was jealousy. She sat at the bar, the other woman. She didn’t register the danger in my approach. She kept talking in a familiar tone, as if she was the television in the living room. I sat down across from her; taking stock of her assets. I felt that my rival was not too formidable. Before her, opened, sat a giant black notebook, the kind that allows for both sketching and text. I got out my smaller lined journal and pen and commenced writing, digging my heels into life.
The very act of searching for the exact date on which her husband declared his infidelity one year ago, proves the adage that time heals.
I can see art on the wall of my new day-bed nook. Something neither small nor large, a medium-sized piece, although I don’t know whether it would be portraiture, or a landscape, or something realistic like a photograph. I also don’t know if I envision it framed or not, hanging from a nail or taped up.
Before I can decide what to procure for my viewing pleasure, I must paint the wall, whose present shade of green is decidedly sinister, not the warm luster which would best set off a work of art.
There is a lot to consider.
And while I’m cataloging desires, let me put down that since childhood I’ve hankered after a certain bed-prop/cushion/pillow which allows one to be fully functional while reclining. The house where I spotted this device was occupied by intellectuals who kept the complete works of L. Frank Baum on hand. I always thought that being able to comfortably read in bed would open many doors for me but at the same time I did not dare to mention this nor bare this request until now.
He writes to her, “I now have a head full of erotically charged images and thoughts.” In the exactly seven years that she has known Jerome, she has not once pictured him swept up in a sexual revelry in which she presides over; she has been many things to him, but never the goddess of love. What has changed? Is it life itself, relentlessly advancing its mission, until, one day, frayed and ground to a pulp, some of our soft inner fluid spills out and coagulates in the August sun?