Knots

theartistport

It is possible to like a few. But, is it pointless? Am I just toying with hearts? I don’t let go, because “maybe’s” exist.

The coins laid out before me. I pick them up. I close my fingers around them. Unclench, and pass them through my fingers.

I think. I stare at my last name. A simple word. It is affixed in the painting that just was anonymously delivered to my office. Wrapped in brown paper. His name and my last. My heart skipped a beat. Fuck. I unwrap it. The Artist. Yellow. Warm. Bright. Abstract. Is this how he sees me? I would have guessed a painting to be inspired by me, conceived by him, to be rich in frustration, as his frustration is akin to mine with Caballito.

Tomorrow I leave for New York. Cold awaits. An extreme from my past weekend of tangerine and turqoise, Venezuela. There was Veuve Cliqout and waters so clear I could see the fish swim around my bronzed skin, the same fish that later lay splayed amongst lobster, kissed with juices from oranges and lime. I danced in the moonlight. I confronted my unquiet mind. I came back with bruises. Too many knots. Unfortunately, not from those tied around my wrists. 33 knots–the yacht’s speed.

I fly tomorrow. To pack, ship and donate my belongings from New York. I will stay with KidRobot. See MattDamon for dinner. I will think of the Artist and the painting that I stare at now. I will straddle lives and affect hearts. This shouldn’t be painful, but it is. And all the while, I will think of Caballito.

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8 thoughts on “Knots

  1. Perhaps he sees you in a different light than you realize? You seem to be different things to different people, depending on their (and your) need. I wonder how much alike your you and his you are.

    And your life is a movie I want a part in. Everything you describe is beautiful to the point of the surreal — you seem nearly impossible, my dear. Give the cold my regards.

  2. I took a photo for you Kimberly. I hate to post it, as out of scale, it loses its effect. But i may, just for you.

    Errant- You read the truth too well sometimes.

    I would cast you any day.

  3. your writing makes me sad. makes me sad to think that i thought i knew you. or thought i knew a little part of you but actually know nothing. makes me sad to think that these are the things that you live with EVERY day. makes me sad to think that no matter how many times i say call, write, i am here you never actually hear it. makes me sad to think that maybe you never will.

  4. Floreta- To write as you do, I imagine your life, to be quite compelling.

    Katieleigh- Thank you. You leave me speechless by your comment. And I am glad I have found your blog.

    Almostloved- I was inspired by and often still think back to many of your posts. I imagine, an artist would do more than paint something for you.

    sadinnovato- for this I apologize. But, what is an apology?
    Don’t be sad . . . now you know my mind, you know me better than anyone else. I don’t want to make a promise which I can’t keep, but you are here and so am I.

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