It wasn’t until I was walking, three grocery bags overfilled in my arms, home from the market in the morning that the headache kicked in; and I comprehended exactly what (I think) I had been doing the night before. Namely, swimming in the organically formed black plastic (?) beam supported pool/tub built by Berliner-parisienne artiste amateurs comprising last room of the new MArTa exhibit which, it being the opening, was as much overflowing with gin as with salted water (heated through copper pipes run through an old oven standing off to one side of the massive wet monstrosity—which looked as though it had swallowed, rather than just contained—the collection of arms and legs drifting opaquely around).
But no time to think about that, or the carnevalesque chaos ensuing in an old villa which (a nice paris lady named elisa gave me a tour, pointing out the bright red red carpets with her full redlipsticked lips) had a basement that looked like one eyed jacks and there were cages in an adjacent room (“zcahriest pahrt first” exclaimed she in her drawling French tone “I don knoh whad waz goeeng ahn dohn hea, but eet ees zo strainge!”)…no, no time to think: I arrived home, bags about to drop, to find guests already arrived. Happy valentines, I had, for some reason, though it a good idea to get together a little tea and cakes and hearts of chocolate valentines gathering.
Ok, it was sweet. But I miss my ol valentines.
Keine Kommentare:
Kommentar veröffentlichen