All the Hope

We are hideous monsters, of course.  All of us are crippled in some way.  Still, we try to make beauty of a sort, or try to show the awfulness of things in a creative way.  That is all the hope we have.

Modigliani and Jeanne in Paris.  Cold winter nights.  I saw a little movie of Renoir painting on YouTube this morning, crippled hands that could not pick up a brush.  Matisse in bed after stomach cancer.  Etc.

I wait impatiently for the new camera.  I have let that become my crutch.  I can't go ahead without it, or so I whisper to myself, a weak excuse.  I look for something else to show.

The nights are cool now, lovely and inviting.  The light from restaurants and cafes is amber and rich in the textured darkness.  I tried last night, went out alone for a bit thinking to have a meal, but a man so long alone can draw too much attention to his own awkwardness.  The place I went to eat was closed for a private party, so I cut back up the alleyway and stood to gaze along the boulevard.  Such loveliness is to share, I thought, standing long. . . longer.  I was on the edge of things, not far from where I might go.  Men with pretty women walking in pairs. . . I tried not to stare. . . slow glances and feigned ennui.  I am so blind I only see partially.  My eyes are drawn to the same thing over and over, the beautiful things that have caused me so much trouble.  I've caused myself.

I am a hideous monster, of course.  Crippled in many ways.  Still, I try to make beauty of a sort, or try to show the awfulness of things in a creative way.  That is all the hope I have.