in her hideout and she's gone to the store and I told her I'd
probably write about the place, you know, a description. But I
want it to be different. I know, I'll do it all
wasn't here last night. Like I don't know a thing about what
happened after dinner when she sat on my lap. Objective as the
devil, that's what I'll be. Like a detective describing the scene
of a crime, a crime of passion. Just like Sherlock Holmes or I
should say, just like Conan Doyle.
off my deer-stalker hat and look around. Upon close examination I
notice immediately the house belongs to a woman, an
walls are a Degas and a Klindt and two originals acrylics of
Magdalena Carmen Frida Calderon that are signed by the woman in
question. So D.H. Lawrence and Diego Rivera had something in
common after all. They both had Fridas.
are stacked neatly---all girly stuff.
musical clues are these:
Cole, Annie Lennox, Josh Groban, never trust a guy named Josh,
they may be "Joshing you. Amy Winehouse and Billie Holliday too.
My sincere apologies to Lady Day for saying she sang girly-stuff.
Please don't slap me when I get to heaven.
corner there's a carefully placed red love-seat. It looks quite
comfortable. What makes it comfortable is the soft-to-the-touch
almost velvet-like cushions. Tossed carelessly on one arm is a
slate-blue angora sweater, size small. This smacks of a sensuous
sense of touch.
floor beneath that is a pair of vintage black high-heels size six
and one-half. The fabric is lacy. It shows a lot, but not
everything, if you know what I mean. From these two clues I
deduce that this woman has class.
my dear Watson, elementary.
immediately want to meet the woman who lives here.
puffing on my Meerschaum I notice:
Tiffany lamp in the corner.
bookcase with plenty of books on it from Faulkner to
phrase-books, Italian. Then a stack of art-books eighteen inches
high. Then something quite singular appears.
figure of a girl-child-life-sized, sitting on a chair next to the
books, all made of brown paper. Another original work. My powers
of deductive reasoning tell me this woman is an original.
see. What have we got so far? An artist, a student, an original,
one woman in size petite. Well read, creative, maybe short, maybe
tall, but the combination of the small sweater and the high-heels
leads me to believe that's she short. Oh, and the woman in
question is also good-smelling. Her sweater carries her scent.
One must observe using all the senses.
enough of the objective detective.
Edmond Dantes sent to prison for a crime of passion too? For
loving a woman, wasn't it? And the jealously of Danglars. Same as
me. We share the same crime, the same guilt. We are in love with
a beautiful woman.
forget the objective stuff. Let's toss the detective viewpoint
and get real subjective for a change. Let's talk about what I
know for sure and dump this pretend speculation.
fine-wine this woman is mature, valuable and rare. I also argue
that she tastes good, that there's a sweetness about her that
can't be denied. She's my equal and capable of putting me in my
place and straightening me out when needed. Sometimes I need
straightening out. Take that however you like it.
got a mind, so when she talks I listen. Her hesitations speak as
much as most women's' sentences. She speaks the language of love,
the only one in which I am completely fluent.
wonder she's turned my head.
doubt that I'm captivated and a prisoner of love.
question that's why I'm right here, right now, sharing serious
moments with her.
is sacred; the woman one loves is holy."
Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo)
making a bench out of corks for her paper-girl to sit on. Found
art. Recycled art.
never wastes a thing. Not a word or an emotion or a moment. Not a
morning, after I toss the cork from last-night's champagne into
her basket of corks, she feeds me hot buttered-oatmeal with
apples and cinnamon. Coffee from Java. I've always wanted to call
my coffee Java. She adds hazel-nut creamer. She spoils me with
breakfast spiced with intelligent conversation. Then whole-grain
toast with weed butter.
coffee and strong butter give you the buzz that the day
recipe for femininity is:
part pure inspiration
measure of spontaneity and mix well.
you get treated by a girl like this it makes you feel
affectionate, like you want to do her right there on the dining
you hear a pretty girl like her, who smells this good say,
an emotional erection that lasts you all day. Sort of lifts your
spirits, if get my drift.
admit to the crime of passion and that it was pre-meditated. I'm
guilty as sin. I'm ready to be condemned to the Chateaux d'If
in Marseille harbor, am prepared to be thrown into a cell like
Edmond Dantes, and dig my way into the old man's cell next door
with a only a spoon for a tool. I'm quite ready to exchange my
body for his, sew myself into his death-bag and be tossed into
the cold waters like so much Euro-trash.
After all, "I have always had more dread of a pen, a bottle of
ink, and a sheet of paper than of a sword or pistol."
Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo)
also ready to rip my way out and re-invent myself into the
twenty-first century Count of Monte Christo, and return to this
scene of the crime of passion and sweep this woman off her tiny
remember, I was not alone in committing the crime. She was, in
fact, the first.
stole my heart months ago.
convinced we should share in the punishment and serve out our
understand that I should not mock Holmes and Watson and that
Conan Doyle fans have a reason to be upset. All the singers and
artists too. To those people I deeply apologize but then again,
art begets art and,
I have raped history, but it has produced some beautiful
after all is said and done:
of language affords one remarkable opportunities."
what you are all thinking, it's:
are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you
would only depart."
Alexandre Dumas (The Three Musketeers)
if I could.
reading is hard when the window is so narrow. Why, it's hardly
the width of a man.