“Very well, Sir, your man will be there at 7:00pm. Have a good day.” Jeremy said to the phone before replacing it on its wired base. A difficult customer, this man, he thought, a guest at the hotel where Jeremy worked. It would be one for Max, he thought. Download: Chapter 4 – Tour Guides About “A Work of Art”
“A work of art!” Peter thought, waking up to a beautiful sunny Saturday morning in San Francisco, opening the window shades to let the warm light in. It was September, the month that gives locals their blue sky Summer, after two months of fog, something like a second Spring. He rushed to the living room to see if the painting was still there, or had only been a dream. Download: Chapter 5 – The Morning After About “A Work of Art”
Wonder for a while how to deal with a blind person. Once in a while, you come across one, on the sidewalk, sweeping the space ahead with a white cane, parting the flow of pedestrians like a boulder in a river. Download: Chapter 6 – at the hotel About “A Work of Art”
They drove in Sam’s little antique red MG, a gift from Gerald, driven by Gerald who, as Sam recognized, was more adept at driving it in town and parallel parking. They drove with the top off, enjoying the September sun and the warmth that those who had been in San Francisco only a few years called unusual. They had learned, anyway, that to enjoy the ride in a convertible car, you had to leave the heater at its highest setting. It made no difference on a hot day, and tempered the inevitable variations between shade, sun, and wind. Download: Chapter 7 – Convergence About “A Work of Art”
They had reserved a table for three at Chez Matthieu, one of the newest French Fusion restaurants in the neighborhood. Reservations had to be made at least a week in advance, and Matthieu didn’t care if you were the Queen of England or a fabulous queen of the neighborhood. Patrons were never pushed out to make space for others, and they could stay for as long as they wanted, until closing time. Matthieu’s fans who had been to France said it was like being in France. You couldn’t ask for substitutions in the menu, which was short enough to limit your indecision. Download: Chapter 8 – Critics and love About “A Work of Art”
This was not going to be an ordinary Sunday. Peter reached sleepily for the pen and spiral notebook that always sat on his nightstand to capture his dreams before they vanished. He wrote: Download: Chapter 9 – Painted state of mind About “A Work of Art”
Life went on. Max had returned to his regular cafe job on Monday morning, after a day wandering and wondering. How could his life make sense after Andrew’s departure? Andrew had called to announce that he had arrived to his regular life, and Max couldn’t ask if Andrew had envisioned that such regular life could include him some day. He couldn’t ask, because after all he had been the sex worker who had become the lover, and who knew if it meant they could envision being boyfriends next. He knew there was a roommate, who also was a helper, at Andrew’s home, but he didn’t know what kind of relationship they had, if any, beyond that. It would have been easier if the helper had been female, it would have cleared the ambiguity. Or perhaps worsened it, perhaps she would have been his wife. Download: Chapter 10 – The Descent to Hell About “A Work of Art”
Perhaps such events could be considered extraordinary, some would call them miraculous, others just fortunate. I like to think it was just a coincidence, but what would life be without a chance encounter that gives you a sense of awe and wonder? My art rescued my muse. Download: Chapter 11 – it all comes together About “A Work of Art”
A Sunday visit in Ciudad Vieja
I’m not sure this is the best way for me to keep writing. Writing on anything but paper, with anything but a comfortable fountain pen gliding over smooth paper, can be – how to say – awkward? There’s a disconnect. I keep thinking about the next word, the next thought, whereas I used to simply let the words flow to my hand. I feel that I’m saying the words in my head first, to decide whether or not they’re fit to print. It’s an interesting observation on this population of one, myself. What pen and paper do to me is similar to a shortcut, bypassing an area of the mind that judges whether or not the words are legible. It could be that I could write truly disposable morning pages, for that’s what I’ve been writing, pages that don’t matter, pages that I know will be or should be thrown away. How about bringing with me blank loose leaf paper, and a good pen? Then I could warm up, and switch to the keyboard for …
Bibi Tiphane 