Look me in the eyes when you tell me I'm an idiot, add a slight caress to the back of my neck with cold, fresh-from-the-spring-air fingers, and I'll prolly kiss you for it.
Italian poutine and raucous conversation at some seedy joint (Louigi's on McGill just south of Notre-Dame) and my lunch hour-and-a-half has turned my week on its proverbial (and pierced) ear.
Of course, I bring up cf's obstinate refusal to add meaning to his life beyond the curvature of a perfect breast
(though I'll admit any day that catching my breath on that particular incline is a passion and hobby of mine)
and Lucky, perpetual intellectual that he is points out:
"Are you arguing form versus content or beauty versus substance or marketing versus product?
Good point he's got. Problem is, this particular string of obscenities between the illustrious angst-boy and I has progressed from "You marketing types pilfer the value of our product" to "you bitter geek types hate the beautiful people" to "beauty is the only thing that makes all this shit we go through worth it" to...
And it's all so terribly futile, I know, I know...
But we've had that discussion before, haven't we?
So I'm going to keep arguing, partly because it gets my blood going and cf is the perfect person to scream obscenities with, and partly because somewhere I'm hoping to find the perfect compromise from whence to plant the seeds of the New World.
All my beloved Libras and sensitive souls and living works-of-art, without you, there would be NO WAY I could continue playing this desperate game...
But you are a tiny percentage of that horrible reality that awaits me the minute I let go of my surrealities and inanities and cornflake dreams, and most of what's out there - isn't beautiful at all. It's just cute. It's pretty. It's petty and fake and just covering up in expensive oils that there's nothing worth playing with.
But Lady, your paintings are more than beauty. They're passion and angst and delight and every other depth-and-breadth emotion I can think of.
But that painting of a red .dot on a blue canvas that sold for 3 million dollars, I hold it personally responsible (and I'm willing to bet the artist is *not* helping his fellows on with their dificult careers) for the downfall of compassion in our society. (though of course we're all responsible... but maybe if we break up the argument without flying off on tangents, we might get somewhere...)
There's no message anymore, and I refuse to look, listen, or feel unless I can feel the warmth of your arms and words about my heart.