as a cloud starts to lift i find myself taking a re-stock of life. perhaps life, like art, should not be expected to make sense. maybe one is better to just allow it to wash over you in all its mess, troubles, woes, joys and trauma.

when food becomes an enemy, when sleep becomes the portal to danger, when memory is something to be seared from the brain, when the comfort of a pillow becomes a shield and when the true beauty of the body becomes a distortion --- perhaps that is the time one should take a walk, a puff on a cigarette, a sip of tea, a walk through a gallery, a ride on a streetcar to the freedom of the ocean and bach providing the backdrop for these moments. (and the way he was never able to finish that final fugue movement --- forever ending abruptly. ...forever stuck in 1750)

and, as i try to contemplate and make sense of the way life tosses us all about, i do find comfort. and, not so much in art but in this moment when i hear the front door close, lock and footsteps of my lover walking away --- only to then hear those steps return. the door unlocks, opens and he walks toward me. i am only half into sleep as the sun slips back into our room.

he kisses me gently. ...sensuously upon my lips.

my mind tries to pull me away from sleep to fully embrace the eroticism of this moment, but i drift into a silent sleep as i hear my love return to the door, it locks and he walks away to his day.

i am loved.

he has kissed me the way i him as he sleeps next to me during my times of personal horror. and, the taste of him brings me closer to safety.

perhaps the way to not let life beat me down is to accept it for what it is.

like art, let it wash over me. simply accept what the artist creates. take solace in what i have

complexities and limitations --- the abstractions of life.

( maybe love is the secret )
...pushing me forward.