Eating sushi last night under the Full Wolf Moon on the newly reopened veranda, I began writing today's entry. Worn out with worrying about the can of worms I had spilled, and having not heard back from that model whom I had not intended to offend (sensitive boy that I am), I had decided to carry on. Two nights running, models had simply not shown up for shoots. That is what I got, I thought. Karmic repudiation. But I hadn't really done anything wrong, had I? Karma is a tricky thing.
Karma, dharma, I thought of Kerouac and the curse he gave us all, or many of us, anyway, wanting to Beatific, slouching on avenues, skulking down alleyways, a bottle of tokay in a back pocket, hands pushed deep down in front, t-shirted howlers and blue-jeaned lovers, dirty boys and golden girls. It's a Lone Wolf Moon, I thought, big and sad, isolated and alone, serenaded by Billie Holliday and Tommy Waits and Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue." Broken angels now.
But an old hipster is an ugly thing. Fucking moon.
When I got home, I thought to cook up the first image of Ophelia (let us call her that, for that is how she seemed to me, fragile as bone china, translucent as moonlight). And later that night, the first image finally done, I emailed it to her.
I won't detail what transpired, but here is the image. There will be more. Karma, dharma, and a clear night full of moonlight.
I grow weary of the "Nude with Mask on Couch" but I know you must be after something. And it is said poets write the same poem over and over and over because IT is not writable. And always slipping away just as the pen is put to the paper.
ReplyDeleteHer skin is luminous but perhaps better against a darker background? O should always wear flowers, I think.
I've had three days off in a row. I'm bad at it though -- I need more practice. or better weather.