SWEET IN COLOR prose & photography by FOX HARVARD
e-G-r-s-t-u. Gesture in goddess form. I begin an attempt to start my life anew; at least in gesture. My last crack in the glass of simply being interesting and clever has been left half empty, and needless to say, I shall avoid returning to the same mistake twice. My name is irrelevant, aged to 35 years and vitality is quickly becoming just a noun—not wholly true, but truer than most things I can say. Awoke at 11:03—eleven hundred in the AM—to a last-May missionary-girl dream, a burning day, and sweata-plenty. Molly was simply the most pleasant girl to sleep with (not to mention fuck), but that too is a glass half empty and for the sake of not varnishing sorrow, we shall not talk of such things. So says she. Yesterday I had a nourishing Chinese lunch—with noodles—smoked only a couple of cigarettes—with wild abandon—and then returned “home” for the first time in a long time where I gathered vast amounts of books and videos and kissed my good-byes. The weather lately feels more like Icarus than Mercury, and being such, has put some inspiration back into these bones. Yet I hate the heat, I hate the heart, and I hate this city. I say that I am serious about a trip to my Germany homeland, but we will see. Summer is positively radiant and hopefully, once again, I am Europebound. I do appreciate my friends though, what few true ones still orbit around here, and our foundations are strong but it is the cracks that bother me…ultimately it comes down to hatred of loneliness, says she, and I desire a couple while the world breeds only in division. So she says. Scenarios are exhausting as is the comment, and so it ended. a-c-e-i-n-o-r-S. Scenario in gesture. It seems quiet types have all the passion as I wait alone at night for someone’s god to talk to me.
Does she see me? Can she see me, and yet I can sense her honey arms and doll-hair all around me, all warm and flocculent. Halleluiah, I love you!, invisible as film when she knew we said goodbyes during the spark, but does she know ignition survives? (what we left on the waves has surely now been found by God). Sometimes, I really don’t care. It doesn’t mean that much to me anymore, as nothing is truly important…anymore. I am driving alone and I feel rabid valediction as I leave my hands for the angels to have. e-L-o-v. Love in gesture. 1975. 1976. 1977. 1978. 1979. 1980. 1981. 1982. 1983. 1984. 1985. 1986. 1987. 1988. 1989. 1990. 1991. 1992. 1993. 1994. 1995. 1996. 1997. 1998. 1999. 2000. 2001. 2002. 2003. 2004. 2005. 2006. 2007. 2008. 2009. 2010. 2011. The Messiah was such a decent person before I met her; back then we called her “Drandy”, for simplicity. Simplifying the gridlock gauge in her eyes, our world could probably find a wizened old man in her, though she was no more than twentysomething. And I can remember—to avoid alliteration, lucid as crystal—our last evening together. After all, it was only across from the bottlebrush tree patch near the shore, as we lay relaxed, like paradise sugar, beaming in each other’s adoration, glowing like holy kaffirs. I cannot help myself nor can I keep myself from her adulation. She is honey and kulfi. She is the girl behind the glass, above everything. She is her ever-presence and still intoxicating… I remember that evening of moral subjection and had no choice but to move back to the house, where we worked at fun and acceptance, since we were such special little cherubs with a blessed knack for fondness and fucking. What could possibly become of my love now? Maybe I’ll just ignore it. Be color my sweet. Be sweet in color.
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