Friday, The Met, New York

Eduard Vuillard - 1868-1940

Interior with Paintings and a Pheasant
The "Foyer"
Before Dinner
Lady Sewing
Figure Seated By Curtained Window
Interior with Figure Sewing.

This is something notable. Estranged from The Men, I am bobbing just afloat The Hudson perhaps right now, about to be cast adrift..

Vulnerability like a whale on its back. Sailing backwards towards landing. There is a surplus of beauty in my brain and it all becomes live electricity or else a tidal wave from deep below, bottom belly, wishing to rise and overflow the mountains. Yes, this is a kind of loneliness, a waiting, an uncertainty, a longing. Pulling on me, at my elbow, will not let me go. Alone. The word clangs and clunks and I guess this is the final strand to pull from my mouth. I am scared, and I am perhaps losing, but what it is, I am unsure, what I found, maybe I didn't? A veil softly covers my eyes and it is all black gossamer and netting. It is what we call 'ze existential'. I'm sick of feeling stupid, and as a ghost, drifting on air, semi-invisible arm of a dress that cannot make people laugh and sing.

I need some water. I need more air expanding my lungs. They feel sickly, undoing, pitiable, forlorn.

And we go look at the suits of armour. No. I chose alone but I wish I didn't have to, I wish I could be locked in arms that weren't born of too much flying and minstrels and air born fleeting profiles already out the door.

But this is really my stick huh?
I don't want anymore intelligence, paint myself red once again to locate the real button of my menacing and vision. I need to love, and that is true. I'm a dead door nail today, and I'm always here, always there, apart

from any source which is not reason.

Isolated and

you were never where I left you...

(Then Yves Klein glowered at me from around a corner.)