06 September 2015 – Tiddle-bit tipsy. Drinks with Liz after dinner. What a fine mess.
Her man Marlon around for dinner. Then off to ‘a function’. Liz’s expression when he said this. Deflated. Embarrassed.
He didn’t ask if any of us wished to go along. Just wiped his mouth after dinner and said he was off. Liz straightened her back. ‘What? Tonight? Where?’ He took her questions of surprise in stride.
That was that.
He left. G washed up and headed out back to play with seeds. Leaving Liz and I to it. She asked for a sip of my wine. How could I say no.
So we drank and talked.
Marlon. Let’s see. They met at the museum. His son Chris was a regular at her Thursday afternoon sketch sessions. Marlon admired her patience and her technique. Told her he managed a gallery. Words chased words.
This was back in April.
In May he gave her a room in the gallery for two weeks. They’ve been together ever since. Plan is for her to move into his loft for October.
Nights like tonight giving her second thoughts.
I don’t know what to make of him.
Makes decent first impression. Talkative. Shows interest. He’s certainly presentable. Pointedly stylish—that dress-up to look like you didn’t dress-up kind of thing. Uppity hipster, if that makes any sense. And handsome, of course. In a geeky contemporary way. Not my thing, but whatever.
Actually, you know, as dinner wore on I found him self-absorbed and a little too OMG excitable. Not to mention the constant fiddling at his phone. And his willingness to LOL to it at the table. The vibe I get is plastic, phoney, privileged. Perhaps worst of all is him being used to it and not thinking it’s at all off-putting.
What do I know.
I’m looking at a crayon drawing of a colorful daisy with a smiling face. Given to Liz this evening by Marlon, from Chris. On the back it says, ‘To liz, mis YU. cHris.’
He can’t be all that bad.
Bugging me all night though is that I was pretty sure she met someone last year. Also through the museum. Murray? Michael? Mitchel? Had a daughter? Am I imagining this? Shall have to ask her at some point—didn’t seem appropriate tonight.
Rules and regulations. Terms and conditions. Fine print.
Politics of propaganda. Propaganda of politics.
Omens, Romans, slogans.
This business of smuggling. People.
Aiming for bright lights. Mothlike.
Walking with Drew. Meditations on being here now. Everything in Our Hands.
Galeano’s description of the cross as fruitful meeting of rain and soil.
Top Five. The movie.
Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats.
Prepping Cornus mas seeds for stratification.
Tossing handful of Acer griseum samaras into pot. Just to see.
Ah. My words.
This is not my notebook.
There it is and then it was done.
(Who is the stooping older man at the front door?)