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2002-11-02 10:50 a.m.


A friend of mine asked me what books I would recommend, what books inspired me. She then told me about a book she was reading. It was a book about a woman who was the supposed lover of Khalo—that painter whose terrible Latin "art" never stops irritating and offending my aesthetic senses. About the book, she said:
Actually, I do not know whether she slept with Khalo, the book glosses over that kind of unfounded speculation, but I have a good feeling about it.
A good feeling about it? Knowing my thought process, I would have skipped the good feeling and jumped right to conclusions.

I just assume that everyone slept with everyone, since that is the only model of life that I am familiar with. All my past attempts at considering that there may be other options—reality-spaces and universes which are not so sexually charged—have failed. I just can't contort my brain to imagine such a strange place.

Who would even want to imagine—let alone live in—a world like that anyway?

A world where a day's success is not the taste of a lover's breath at that electric moment before a kiss, lips suspended in a pregnant moment—a moment of magnetism and gravity that makes Michelangelo Buanarroti's Creation of Man seem derivative and predictable?

A world where people don't let their thoughts "accidentally" graze against a fantasy—"accidentally" like you might hold an embrace for a few seconds too long or move your lips so that your tropical exhale just happens to drizzle the nape of someone's neck, erupting their skin into chills?

A world where nobody pulls petals from flowers, counting each minute since the last time they saw the dust–speckled slats of light sneaking through the window, morning light perfectly engineered for the sole purpose of refracting in the first drop of sweat on their lover's arched back?

If there is a world like that, then I thank the starry skies that I am too feeble-minded to imagine it.


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