June 17, 2012

DR friended me on Facebook. He seemed to know a lot about me, and many of his posts were directly to me. I assumed he was a student whom I had forgotten. He called me “professor.” On line yesterday morning he invited me to breakfast, and I accepted. Turns out he is a 6' 6" kid, 24, with a tangle of black hair and a winning forwardness. I don’t know how to put my impressions into words, they were so many and forceful. He is as one imagines Keats to have been, sweetly obsessive about his craft, self-involved and self-delighted in a way neither unattractive nor inappropriate, a river of energy, ambition, uncertain genius looking for a bed to flow in. He told me the story of several of his books, which are available on Kindle, and the stories were brilliant–as one might expect from a young man–but also subtle and intricate, as one might not expect so readily. I’m almost afraid to open the actual texts, lest they disappoint after the radiance of their maker. I asked him how we knew each other, and we didn’t. He’d read my reviews in the Mountain Xpress, thought we might be kindred souls, and began researching me online. He said he knew everything about me. I decided not to test that assumption, but whatever he knows, it is sweet to think he made the effort. He may be a little mad, and he is certainly an obsessed monologist and an autodidact (whom all I seem to collect) but he is also fascinating. He is sunshine. I watched across the table thinking, “I like you. I’m going to go with this for a while.” He invited me to go with him to find some alcohol when we were done with breakfast, at about 9 AM. I declined. His energy is at once creative and self-destructive. What I was seeing was in part a version of myself that– I think it was a good idea, finally–I steered clear of. All that sparkle and vanity and wounded energy are part of me, but something in my upbringing gave me the skill–and the will-- to conceal it, and though life would have been different had I not covered those fires, it would not necessarily have been better, or as long. Throughout life I’ve made those choices, mostly semi-consciously, which would prolong and protect my art. There are things about that to regret, but here I am, whole and better than I ever was at the things that matter, so maybe it was the right course. D is taking another course, and, father-like, I wring my spiritual hands– but perhaps the gods brought us together to he can take a little of my endurance while I take as much as I can of his verve.

Left D, went to Home Depot and bought what I needed to paint the living room, which I did. Gave it a pale green accent wall. The jury is yet out on that, but there it is, and I have time to get used to it. Near the end of the painting I was staggering about, dizzy and disoriented, clearly poisoned by the paint fumes, though all widows and the front door were open, and the fan was on. I think I remember that from before. I was worried that the fish would be sickened too, but they seem not to have been. Watched CSI on DVD until I passed out.

Kevin the frog sings his morning song.