May 30

What I said the other day about painting definitely applies to writing, too: all poetry is, is seeing what’s special and being brave enough to say it out loud, and that pretty much sums it up. I had a scene today that would make the perfect slice-of-life piece if you wrote it up — but why does it always have to be about “poetry” and “scenes” and “pieces”?! Why do we always have to make a whole thing out of it whenever we have a great experience?!
If you’re expecting something fancy and sophisticated after that introduction — wrong again! What’s got me so revved up this time is…a handyman :P I’m going to butcher the story, as usual, and I’m guessing that, as usual, you’re going to think I’m blowing things out of proportion, but it’s Pickton again, Pickton, every time, throwing these wonderful things my way :)
There was a whole crowd outside under the lindens drinking coffee. It wasn’t really my scene, so I made some excuse and hung back a bit.
A young man came out of a house nearby and got to work wiping down the truck I’d sat on to draw the other day. He seemed like a nice guy, so I went over to him, asked him how work was, pretty soon we got talking, and as usual when I meet people like this, pretty soon we were opening up to each other. He told me he’d been hired by the widow who lived there, and how great she was to work for. He went on so long about her, saying such nice things, that I realized pretty quickly he was head over heels in love with her. “She’s a bit on the older side,” he told me, “she was hurt pretty bad by her first husband and doesn’t want to get married again”; and as he went on describing her, every word he said glowed with how beautiful he thought she was, how charming he found her, how badly he wished that she would let him be the man to make her forget everything wrong her first husband ever did — I’d have to repeat it all word for word to make you see how pure his affection and love and devotion were, I’d have to be a master poet to bring it all to life — his gestures, the music in his voice, the smoldering fire in his gaze…blah! there’s no way to convey the tenderness in everything he said and did; whatever I could write here would be garbage. I was so touched by how scared he was that I might “get the wrong idea about them” and think less of her! And the way he talked about her figure, about her body, which had such a hold on him without being young or conventionally sexy — it makes me tingly just thinking about it :P The urgency and intensity coming off him, the desire and passion and longing — gah! I’d never seen anything like it — never even imagined it! Don’t laugh, but just thinking back to that innocence and sincerity makes me all hot and bothered, and the thought of that devotion and tenderness follows me around everywhere, and I’m as horny and mushy as if *I* were the one in love!
I’m going to try to get a look at her as soon as I can — or, actually, come to think of it, I’m not. It’s better for me to see her through the eyes of someone who loves her; maybe if I actually saw her, I wouldn’t see her the way I do now, and why should I spoil this beautiful image?

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